If After All
by Kinderby
Summary: In late 1871, our couple is estranged. After everything Rhett and Scarlett have done to each other, what will bring them back together? (Part 5/5 of a series.)
1. Chapter 1

A/N: It's all been leading to this, and I hope it's a worthy conclusion! (Note: this is the multi-chapter story, not a weird cliffhangery one-shot, though I do love those sometimes. ;)) I'm fascinated by the idea of a couple that can hurt each other as much as this one can, so now I need to try to get them to heal each other as much, too.

To this point (in my mind, at least) everything from my series could have also happened in the book. Now I'm playing in the timeline, but trying not to branch out _very_ much. Pull a thread here and there, and let's see if we can unravel this Butler Marriage Sadness Sweater.

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 _if after all_

 _It was a pale, thin woman that Rhett put on the Jonesboro train a month later._ _– Chapter LVII_

Part 1

 _Clayton County, Georgia, late September, 1871_

Tara brought some restorative calm to Scarlett's troubled mind and wounded body, as it always did. On days when she had the energy, she walked down to the lane, or sometimes to the little rise overlooking the fields. She spent hours sitting in her favorite rocking chair on the porch. A soft, worn blanket covered her. She twisted her fingers in the fabric, anchoring herself to something she could touch, as she gazed out at this land. Dear Tara. How much she had given to save it. But it was not home the way it once had been. Why, it hadn't been her home for years! Not since that terrible time after Atlanta fell, not _really_ since the war had first started, if she thought about it. Without Pa's fiery bluster and Ellen's cool grace smoothing everything over, it simply muddled along. She and Will did the best they could. And this land would always be a tremendous comfort to her. But oh, she longed for the safety of a place called home.

She didn't seem to have that anymore. The house on Peachtree was large and imposing and secure, and she loved it dearly, because she had survived and all of Atlanta had to be in awe of her material wealth. But it was no Tara, and now somehow Tara wasn't quite Tara either.

She supposed she must be getting back. The store could only look after itself for so long, and of course the mills… Well, they no longer brought her any pleasure to think of. The mills that had used to be her darlings, now seemed almost another burden. Her present ill health and weariness were directly related to her last visit there. It had cost her so much to get those mills, and now they seemed to have cost her everything.

Ashley's mill continued to lose money at an alarming rate, and now from far away at Tara, she could not even ensure that her mill and the lumber yard made enough to recoup her losses. She felt a now-familiar itch of irritation in her breast at him. Ashley was always using words she didn't understand—he was _brilliant!_ She couldn't see why he couldn't make a success of it. And there was his gray, shame-filled countenance now, in the times they had met since his birthday. Why had he allowed Melanie to smooth over their behavior? Oh, not that anyone could have stopped her.

But there had been no passion in their embrace! She thought in impotent frustration, again, of how Rhett would have told everyone to the devil, or shot them if their roles had been reversed. But then, he felt no guilt about his adulterous behavior. It still flooded her with horror and shame to think the night they had shared was like so many others for him. Five months later, the pain was every bit as keen as it had been, sitting weakly on the bed, hearing that infernal laugh. _Don't tell me you don't know! I thought surely the whole town knew by now. Perhaps they all do, except you. You know the old adage: 'The wife is always the last one to find out… I thought that after the police called at Belle's night before last—_ Hateful wretch! No, the mills reminded her of Rhett in far too many ways. Her mind backed hurriedly away from that track. She didn't want to think of that just now. Rhett's absence in the days following, and the three months, and then from her sickroom proved… well, it didn't matter, anyway. She had thought— but she had been wrong. She closed her eyes and turned her head against the headrest.

The baby flashed in her mind, and she pulled the blanket tighter around her shoulders. She did not think of him often—always a him, for some reason; she had simply known it was a boy, though the pregnancy had been largely indistinguishable from her others. Perhaps she simply couldn't bear to think of another daughter who would love Rhett so much more than her. And yet she thought of him all the time. He was a dull ache in her heart, so ever-present that she ceased to notice it, except when a sudden flash of longing left her dizzy. There was no baby to love, and there never would be, for whatever had driven Rhett that night had so obviously left him, that she couldn't comprehend how it had existed in the first place—or if it even had. He had been drunk, and she had been _…_ there. Any words he might have spoken had only been some monstrous joke. He had made that clear when he returned, both after the days of waiting and worry, and after the months of agonizing hope, struck down with the first words out of his mouth. She shivered and pulled the blanket even tighter. The weather had turned, and the air did not hold its characteristic humidity. She wondered briefly if it felt unseasonably cool in Atlanta, as well.

She missed Bonnie, with a pang of regret as she thought Bonnie very possibly didn't miss her at all. She had made some little progress with both Wade and Ella while they had been here at Tara, though—more, certainly, than she had been able to make following Rhett's accusation and abrupt departure. Just yesterday, Ella had brought her to the barn, beaming with pride over her discovery of a new litter of kittens. As she picked up a grey ball of fluff and held him, struggling, to her chest, she hugged her mother. Scarlett fought the tears and weak nausea the tableau evoked, and managed to exclaim, she thought in the appropriate places, at her daughter's reluctant prize.

Wade, too, had opened up to her in his own way. He shadowed his uncle all day, growing brown in the sun from chores and surveying. He would probably never be as open with her as he was with Melanie or Will. But he took to life at Tara like a duck to water, and he had begun directing as much as a third of his reports on the state of the plantation to her over dinner. He loved this place, perhaps almost as much as she did. It gratified her that it was she who had brought him to this place that he loved so much. It seemed they had something in common, after all.

Yes, Tara had been good to all of them. Her refuge, even if it could not be her redemption.


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: Thank you for reviewing! Guest, I especially like that you thought some of Scarlett's thoughts were disjointed. That may sound odd, but these events are all such a tangle, and for someone like Scarlett who already can't read people very well, I think it would be hard to sort through and process. I'm not generally a fan of the "unreliable narrator" (although I'm pretty sure I fell for it hook, line, and sinker when I first read GWTW at 15) so I'm not trying to be confusing. But Scarlett _does_ miss things. And we wouldn't have her any other way, would we? Please tell me what you think!

Part 2

 _Early October, 1871_

Rhett and Bonnie were waiting at the station for them when the train arrived from Jonesboro. Scarlett's heart quailed treacherously as his lips brushed her cheek in greeting, his mustache tickling the delicate skin near her ear. The affectionate gesture surprising her, she quickly raised her head to peer into his face. It was open, for once, and she nearly gasped at what she saw.

No glimmer of waiting, as she had sometimes asked him about in the earliest part of their marriage. Neither was there the simmering anger she had grown accustomed to in the intervening years. His wintry face seemed to look past her, almost as if he didn't see her at all. The memories rushed back to her, of his cool, impersonal demeanor while she had convalesced. She had noticed it then, but been almost too tired to see it, let alone wonder at it. She had not paid it much mind while at Tara. He— he was just being considerate, then, and making sure the children did not weary her. She fully expected him to return to his most perverse, wretched self once she had regained her health.

Bonnie gave her a loud, smacking kiss on the cheek, and hugged her tightly around the neck. "Oh, precious, you've gotten so big!" Scarlett remarked, before setting her down on impatient toddling feet. Ella dutifully took her baby sister's hand after Bonnie hugged her, too.

They made their way to the carriage, their procession slowed by the two gamboling little girls. "Ella, don't run off!" Scarlett called. Her daughter returned, and took hold of her left hand, seemingly reluctant to let go when Rhett turned to assist them into the carriage.

She filled him in on the news at Tara. She turned her head sharply again when he responded with uncommon courtesy about her precious farm. Insults about Tara, or at least her Irish attachment to it, were second nature to Rhett. Failure to tease her about it drew her eyebrows together in slight confusion. But in its own way, it was a welcome respite from the usual taunts, so she plunged heedlessly on. She relayed news about people he'd barely met and places he'd never seen. "Actually teaching schoolchildren, Rhett, can you imagine? When not a one of them has ever been able to even spell cat!" She told him about Cathleen, and felt almost wistful.

She had disappeared from Scarlett's life just like so many others, never to be heard from again. Cathleen had been almost a friend, once. Why, they had been gossiping together at the top of the grand staircase of Twelve Oaks, when she had first seen— Her eyes flicked to the seat opposite. Rhett was quietly looking back at her, sober, in a way that left her ill at ease. She felt her heartbeat in her stomach and looked away, down at Ella, curled against her side. She did not mention that Suellen was expecting.

Her heart gave a quick jolt when the carriage turned onto Peachtree, and she leaned forward in her seat to look out the window toward her house. When they pulled up to it, though, she felt none of the familiar rush of joy she had come to expect. It should have been a showcase of her success. Instead, she only felt the same swooping emptiness she had experienced the other morning when Sue had let slip her condition over breakfast. To her sister's sure delight—and no doubt scheme, if she was smart enough—something Scarlett was _not_ prepared to concede—she had made arrangements to return to Atlanta as soon as possible. Surely whatever awaited her there was preferable to watching her sister _increase_.

Rhett lifted Ella down from the carriage when it stopped in front of the house. Then he turned to hand Scarlett down as well. His touch burned through her gloves. The sun shone brightly and made her eyes water. She longed to be in her cool, dark room.

Mammy was waiting for her inside, and she had no sooner stepped over the threshold than she was enveloped in that old, comforting embrace. Those dark, omniscient eyes had not missed her strained, pale face, or the slight shadows under her eyes, and her arms took in Scarlett's too-slim body. But her mistress was back where she belonged, with her, and she looked a sight better than she had when she had left. Mammy would see to restoring Scarlett to full health. She sent the children up to the nursery, and walked with Scarlett up to her room to wash up and rest.

At supper, Rhett listened patiently as Wade and Ella regaled him with tales of their adventures at Tara. Scarlett thought uncomfortably that she hadn't known half of their stories before tonight. She sent the children up to bed, with promises to tuck them in after they had had their baths. Rhett didn't even make a snide remark about her motherly overtures. She did not know why the absence of all his usual barbs made her heartsore.

Rhett did not get up from the table when the children were gone. He had finished his usual cup of coffee, but he poured himself a second this evening. The leaping light of the gas lamps threw shadows around the table so that it looked almost like his hand shook. Scarlett was silent.

She did not know what to say, and was relieved when Rhett gave her the latest news from the store. The subject of Hugh Elsing led to the topics of other Old Guard, and Rhett answered her questions about the goings-on of the town during her absence. But the answers had none of their usual disdain for the people he was discussing. He may as well have been talking of the weather.

She wanted to hear about the Wilkeses, but her heart stuttered as she neared the topic of Ashley. "And – Melanie? Have you seen her?" She realized with some surprise that she wished to see Melanie, and soon. Oh, how she had missed her.

Rhett answered so genially, so unaffectedly, she braced herself for his next words. She knew what followed his pleasantest responses, and she dreaded it. But the offending blow never came. He merely mentioned having seen her, and then the Mrs. Meade and Merriweather the day before yesterday. They had complimented Bonnie on her new dress and Mrs. Merriweather had mentioned the picnic Raoul would be having for his birthday next weekend. Scarlett smiled weakly—Rhett was clearly winning his campaign for their daughter. She would have to find some appropriately shabby, genteelly poor, dress for Bonnie to wear to that little ape's party. Though Heaven only knew how she'd manage it; Rhett threw away Bonnie's clothes faster than she could outgrow them, if she even hinted that she didn't like them anymore.

Scarlett started to think of the work she had to get back to. She would visit the store tomorrow to go over the accounts and inventory. Rhett had kept her books while she'd been ill, and sent her reports at Tara, but she wanted to sit down with the numbers and do the calculations herself. She had spent the last weeks—months, really—trying to understand Rhett's behavior, following the worn, familiar grooves in her mind relentlessly, even when she grew frustrated at her continued failure and resolved to stop trying. She had made no progress, reached no conclusions, and now his current mood unsettled her. It would be good to apply her brain to concrete numbers that either summed correctly or didn't. Work would provide a pleasant distraction. She supposed she would visit the mills the next day. But perhaps the store would need her again.

Rhett didn't leave the table when the dishes had been cleared away. He didn't say anything, either. They sat and sipped coffee in silence, until finally, his tired voice reached her ears. "It is good to have you home." She was going to injure her neck if she kept looking at him like this, trying to catch him unawares, to understand the meaning behind his words. His face, as ever, gave nothing away. He did not sound sarcastic, or look at all his old mocking self. But he didn't seem to be burning with sincerity, either. Confusion thoroughly tied her tongue, as it dawned on her that perhaps this was just another pleasantry, like his kiss at the station. Neither cutting, nor heartfelt, it seemed like a vapid phrase he would have used with any one of the Old Guard in his effort to win them over—just something to be said to smooth everything along. She merely nodded.

The silence stretched between them, thick and heavy, and Scarlett didn't know if she wanted to avoid going upstairs or escape this odd, tense peace more. After several more minutes, she shook herself. She was being ridiculous! She stood up and wished Rhett a good night, before walking out of the room in her most queenlike gait, without a backward glance.

Heavy, dull eyes flicked upward, as he wished her the same. Scarlett never knew that the old light glowed hotly in them as he watched her carefully ascend the stairs. Rhett didn't realize that his breathing stopped until he heard the nursery room door shut.


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: A little character development, and Melanie! Thank you all so much for reviewing – they brighten my day immeasurably.

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The next morning, Scarlett brought Wade and Ella with her to visit their aunt. Melanie's face shone as she ushered Scarlett into the shabby little house on Ivy. The children had already run inside after Beau to play. Scarlett looked around in almost expectant disdain, only to find that she couldn't muster her old superiority. It _was_ a shabby house, but it reminded her a little of Tara now – a place that could have, should have been grander, that was somehow made comforting simply because people cared for it so. The little house glowed with Melanie's love. Her own Peachtree mansion, for all its splendor, lacked that particular charm. After her fever broke, Scarlett had felt oppressed by all the dark, imposing colors and harsh lights, even though she was mostly confined to her room. Tara had been so much brighter in comparison. She had felt able to breathe better after she arrived. Oh, if Rhett ever found out how she really felt about the house! she thought with an odd, breathless anticipation.

"Darling, let me look at you!" Melanie said, releasing her from another embrace, and continuing to hold Scarlett at the elbows. "Dearest, you look the belle of five counties once more!" she proclaimed. The flattery warmed Scarlett, even though she knew it to be untrue. She still felt tired and her looking-glass reflected it. It was true enough that she at least looked a sight better than when she had last been here—no, when she had last seen Melanie.

"Oh Melly, you do go on." she replied. Before she could overthink the impulse, she kissed Melanie's pink cheek. "I just wanted to thank you for taking such good care of me while I was—" she began. Her stomach rolled as she rushed through the words. She _did_ want to thank Melanie, but she hated to think of those weeks—the fever and nausea, the sharp pains and dull aches, the nightmares from which she could not escape.

Melanie's cheeks turned a brighter shade of pink at this praise, scant though it seemed to Scarlett. "My dear, Scarlett, there is no need to thank me! You would—you _have_ done the same for me, when Be—" she bit back the rest of the sentence, chewing her lip. Scarlett had gone pale. How thoughtless of her! "Darling, do have a seat." she said, ushering Scarlett into her best chair. What a thing to have said! Her precious Beau had survived. She felt weak as she thought of her life if he had not.

She cast about for a subject that should be more agreeable. "Captain Butler must be so pleased to have you home again." Her cheeks burned hot as she thought of their last meetings: the terrible self-recriminations and the subterfuge which she had agreed to enter into with him. Others might talk, but she knew both to be shining—or, well, perhaps tarnished—signs of his obvious love for his wife.

Scarlett's face pinked at these words, echoes of Rhett the night before, but she could not bring her eyes to Melanie's earnest gaze as she spoke. "Yes, he— said so, after supper last night."

Melanie laughed lightly. "Of course he did! He and Bonnie were thick as thieves while you were gone, but I know they both missed you. You don't need him to _say_ he's glad you're home to know he is!"

Scarlett raised a stricken face to Melanie's loving gaze. Oh, how could she be such a ninny! Melly, who _knew_ that he hadn't come to her. She had been frantic with worry when he had been away, while she had almost died and he hadn't even looked in on her. "That's a fine thing to say when he didn't even see me when I was sick!"

The stinging words felt good leaving her mouth, but she'd no sooner spoken than she wished she hadn't. Melly was such a sweet simpleton. She couldn't know anything about the darker sides of a man's nature. Not when she was married to Ashley, who didn't have any dark sides to his nature.

"Oh, darling!" Melly said, flying from her chair to perch herself on the arm of Scarlett's. "He didn't— why— you know it's not—" she struggled to find words. Could she explain without betraying his confidences? She didn't even know what to explain. So much of Captain Butler's drunken ramblings were incoherent, and nearly all the rest were simply untrue. She began again, "He was devastated, dear. He didn't eat, he didn't sleep, he just—" she broke off, her face aflame again with the memory of his intoxication.

Scarlett couldn't make sense of this recounting, and then decided she didn't believe it for a minute. Rhett had not even been happy to see her, and then he had said— She had missed him, but he had not missed her, and so he had not come to her room. And then in the weeks before she went to Tara, and yesterday, he had been so cool and polite.

She remembered his face when she had told him she was to have Bonnie, the hard, driving fear. _"Do I really mean so much to you?"_ It was almost the last time he had seemed to care about her health. Then she remembered his answer. Was he worried about his investment? She frowned.

Oh, what did it matter, she decided in the next instant. Melanie had always thought so generously of Rhett, and she was likely just saying what she imagined Rhett to have been like during her illness. If Rhett didn't come see her, of course Melanie would attribute the noblest possible motives to excuse him. Scarlett was so tired of _wondering_ about him. If he wanted her to know anything, he was going to have to tell her, because she was simply not going to devote any more time to the mysteries of Rhett's impenetrable mind.

She smiled at her friend—Melly was a goose, but she was a dear. Scarlett recalled, suddenly, sitting on the porch with her at Tara, their faces black with soot from the Yankees' arson. She remembered thinking, at the time, that Melanie was always there when you needed her.

"Do you remember," she asked, turning ever so slightly in the chair to look up at her friend, "when the Yankees came to Tara?" It was an absurd question, a thing that could never be forgotten, like asking, "Do you remember your wedding?" But it felt almost good to look back on a time like that, now that they were safely so far away from it.

Melly nodded, answering her question with, "And you hid the wallet in Beau's diaper?" Scarlett laughed softly, brushing this off with a wave of her hand, "Well, I couldn't let them find it!"

This somehow led to other reminiscences, memories which should not have been pleasant, except that viewed from the other side of hunger and fear, some of them could almost be downright humorous. Without actually mentioning the horrid little man, how they had come into possession of the wallet in the first place, or the scuppernong vine's secret, they even recounted that awful day, and Scarlett remarked, wiping tears from her eyes, "And in just your shimmy!"

She had not liked to think about it, but she had never forgotten the image: Melly, too weak even to walk, dragging that sword behind her nevertheless.

As her laughter subsided, Scarlett leaned her head against Melanie's side for a moment. Melly was always there for her.

They spent the rest of the morning in companionable comfort. Melly urged them to stay for dinner. Scarlett's heart beat quickly and uncomfortably at the idea of a meal with Ashley. It really wasn't necessary, she demurred without specifics.

"Please, darling, it's no trouble," Melly assured her, "Dilcey sent along a dinner with Ashley this morning; he said he'd be working all day. We have more than enough, I'm sure. Oh, I am so happy to see you again." she chattered on. Scarlett relented under the cheerful onslaught, though Melanie's definition of more than enough couldn't possibly match hers.

The food was wholesome and good, and her children well-behaved enough that the meal didn't try her patience.

Scarlett left the little house feeling lighter than she had in months.


	4. Chapter 4

A/N: Thank you so much for reading, following and reviewing! I'm so glad y'all liked the conversation with Melanie. Scarlett needs a friend! She does recognize Melanie as one sometimes in the book—but then Ashley returns and dumb-dumb Scarlett forgets! Maybe in this story she won't. :) India Wilkes reader, you made my day. Just :at a loss: thanks!

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Part 4

Over the next few weeks, a pattern established itself. Melanie renewed her campaign, begun in April, taking Scarlett for afternoon visits after a morning spent in the store or her office. The store continued to practically run itself, and Scarlett was grateful for this, as her sleep was now regularly punctuated by nightmares. The nightmares had never gone away altogether, but before April, they had diminished in frequency to once or twice a week.

Now, nearly every night, she ran through the sinister fog, and it clutched at her skirt, and she ran, trying to find safety, but there was no safety. And then she awoke to see Rhett standing over her, with bloodshot eyes, his shirt open to reveal his strong, safe chest. He scooped her up and asked, "What's the matter, honey? Is it your old dream?" She nodded, and opened her mouth to tell him about it, and then he opened his arms, and she fell. And she was falling, falling, falling through thick mist and there was nothing to grab hold of, nothing to stop her, there was only fog and soft, cruel laughter surrounding her. Sometimes she would hear a baby cry, too, and reach out to hold it. But she never could reach it, her slick palm could never grasp the tiny fist, until she suddenly jerked awake, her heart stuttering painfully in her chest, sheets damp with sweat twisted around her body, so tightly sometimes that her legs prickled in pain as sensation rushed back in.

These restless nights translated themselves into Scarlett sleeping later than she had been accustomed before. "Before…" There were so many calamitous moments in her life, it seemed silly to divide it up into more little pieces. The war, Ellen's death, her mortifying return to Atlanta, marrying Rhett, barring him from her bedroom.

But she could not help now thinking of _before_. Now it only meant that terrible, intoxicated, intoxicating, mad night, and then Rhett and Bonnie's return from abroad. The three months in between seemed far removed in her mind—existing, and she in it, like some kind of purgatory, waiting and worrying, buffeted by society's strictures, sheltered by Melanie when she was out in the world. And when she was left to herself, always, always that agony of hope, and the secret joy she could not share.

At the time, she had thought she would never forget the minutest detail of gossip she heard in those interminable sewing circles, as she smiled to herself and dreamed. But now everything blurred into each other, and it seemed as though it had happened in another lifetime, or not to her at all. Only one moment stuck out among the rest, a thunk of a suitcase, and sometimes she felt her heart race still, remembering how she had flown out of her room to welcome them home. But it did not much signify how she had felt then, and it did not bear thinking about. That moment somehow seemed to belong to Before too, and this was now.

Now, she just had her store to run, and mills to oversee, and her children to try to love. They did not make it easy, or at least they did not make it easy for her. It was easy for Melanie, who knew just precisely what to say for their conversation to sparkle forth. It was easy even for Rhett, to whom they told their hearts' little secrets, even though he so clearly favored their sister. But she tried to build on what they had started at Tara.

Wade didn't talk to her as much here, there being no farm reports to relate over supper, but she found him watching her with a solemnity unfitting for a boy of almost ten—although he had always been so serious. His quiet concern gratified and unnerved her. She was happy that at least he seemed to care about her, although sometimes she wanted to cry in exasperation that she was fine.

Ella didn't watch her like Wade, but Scarlett would occasionally peek in on her as she was playing in the nursery. Ella would sometimes look up from her dolls, and smile at Scarlett. Twice she had even scrambled up from playing to hug her, pressing a face glowing red with embarrassment into her mother's skirts. Tears pricked Scarlett's eyes at this gesture and she thought, as she awkwardly patted her daughter's shoulder, that it must be slightly pathetic for something so small to mean so much.

Mealtimes were the most difficult. Ella would never just _eat_ , choosing instead to push her food around and off the plate, as she played with it. Scarlett tried not to be sharp, but seeing food wasted, she could still feel how desperately her stomach hurt while she picked cotton. Wade knew better than to play with his food—knew from experience, when his empty stomach had ached, too—but he could still be caught on occasion, just sitting at the table, his fork suspended in midair, staring at her.

And oh, then there was Bonnie! Bonnie was terribly headstrong, and only Rhett could coax her to behave, except that he almost never did.

Rhett spoiled Bonnie utterly, and Scarlett did not know what to do about it. She was still young enough that her tantrums could be excused by age. And she was so affectionate and endearing when she did have her way, that Scarlett was tempted to spoil Bonnie herself. She was a darling when she was happy, and seeing her so made Scarlett want to keep her happy. But sooner or later, she would be playing with other children—children who weren't Wade and Ella, who had long since resigned themselves to giving in to whatever Bonnie demanded, and contenting themselves with other toys or playing a different game.

She had been kept entertained at Raoul Picard's little birthday picnic—a consequence of the fact that many of the parents had stayed in attendance, Rhett among them. Scarlett was glad she had been purposely left off the impromptu auxiliary party's guest list. She certainly had better things to do than attend a picnic with a bunch of screaming children. Still, Bonnie would not always have her father around to devote all of his attention to, and when that happened… Her tempers would not always be tolerated, her manners not always sweet enough to overcome them. Then Maybelle and India and everyone else would talk, their voices pitched low, but unable to disguise their barely controlled glee. _What a wretched mother Scarlett is! Why hasn't she done something to control that child? My dear, you know she spends all her time at the mills, when would she have the chance?_ Oh, and they would smile expressively at each other then.

She saw, with sharper eyes than she'd ever possessed before, how very dear father and daughter were to one another. Rhett had always loved their little girl, she knew of course, but she had never found it so… confrontational. Bonnie sat next to Rhett at supper, but clambered into his lap before the end of the meal without fail, sitting like a princess, and imperiously refusing to get down when scolded to do so by her mother. Rhett's arms would tighten briefly around the little figure, as he laughed easily and dropped a kiss onto her black curls.

"Let her stay," he would say, in an almost carefree way that nonetheless brooked no opposition. Scarlett bit her cheek, hard, to keep from snapping at either of them. She didn't know who was the source of the frustrated tears in her eyes more—her husband or her little girl.

During these weeks, Rhett did not leave the table as soon as the children were dismissed. At first, this surprised her. She thought he must want to talk to her about something, although what it could be, Scarlett could hardly fathom. They so rarely had anything to talk about lately. The weight of all they had said and never said had slowly crushed her ability to broach new topics with him, and now she feared his disinterested answers more than the ones that stung.

Still, they sat in cool tension that would have looked charmingly like tranquility from the outside. The little seed of an idea had planted itself in her head after her first supper back. He was going to Belle's—he always went to Belle's, and he had finally confirmed it, _before._ He had no need to make excuses now, but she wondered if he stayed at the table so she would leave first. Then he would not even need to make excuses! Well. She had proved that she could withstand anything he said, hadn't she? She could stand this, too. It made her teeth clench to sit here, waiting for the other to cede ground first. But after that first night, she had no desire to be tricked into his game. If he didn't want to sit here with her, if he wanted to go, why should she have to leave first? Let him play alone: she would stay here and make him say goodnight first. Force him to tell her he was going _out_. She would stand it. What else could he have to say to her?

And then one night, it became perfectly clear.


	5. Chapter 5

Thank you for reviewing!

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Part 5

"Ashley came by the bank today." His voice startled her after the customary smothering silence. It was so _loud_ , a voice that had no respect or patience for theaters or churches or sickrooms. "It seems a soldier he nursed at Rock Island has done rather well for himself. He does not know which one—I am sure Ashley nursed so many people back to health it would be impossible to tell." Scarlett stiffened, but Rhett continued without pause, and her brow crinkled delicately. Was she not supposed to pick up the glove he'd thrown down?

Rhett was still talking, and she'd missed some of what he had said. "—your share in the mills."

"He— what?" she asked, trying to disguise her momentary drift as disbelief.

"He wants to buy your shares in the mills, my pet." He smirked infernally, anyway, the cad, and she lifted her chin, unconsciously squaring her shoulders at the same time. Something darted in his eyes at the gesture, something dim and quick that Scarlett was too tired and angry to see. She would not have known what it meant, anyway.

"He wants to buy my share in the mills?" she repeated, dumbly. Emotions flared and battled in her heart. Oh, she wouldn't have to drag Ashley resignedly into success every week! She could focus on the store, perhaps start a new business, and make sure it sang. Oh, but then she would have to listen to Melanie shrug and sweetly say that business just wasn't good at this time of the year. Would it be worse, continuing to browbeat him into making money, or hearing that he was failing and know there was no way to help him? And… she would have no outside excuse to see him now. Although they had seen each other so little, since— Only once, almost accidentally, while Rhett and Bonnie were gone, and then just before she left for Tara.

Melanie had called one bright afternoon in mid-August when Scarlett had felt just well enough to walk down to the parlor with Mammy.

Scarlett had been curled up on the sofa, listlessly turning the pages of a Godey's Lady Book and trying to feign interest in the new fashions. She couldn't seem to make herself care about the latest dress developments. Everything still hurt.

She felt equal rushes of gratitude and shame when Melanie was shown in. She moved to take the blanket off her legs and sit up straight, ladylike, but she winced as she twisted her legs around. Melanie had hurried forward, and she set a gently iron hand on Scarlett's shoulder. "Don't get up, my dear."

Scarlett wanted to argue, but she felt too tired, and meekly complied instead. "Thank you for coming, Melanie. It is good to see you." She smiled.

It was only when she looked past Melanie's shoulder did she see that Ashley had come, too. He was standing foolishly just inside the doorway as if he did not mean to stay. He was looking straight ahead into one corner of the room, away from Scarlett, and her nerves tingled at this abject sight. Why, he looked almost senseless!

Melanie was still blocking her from getting up or at least moving around so she could receive them with any sort of propriety, but Scarlett still struggled to sit up straighter, at least.

"Darling," Melanie began as she perched on the other end of the sofa, tucking the blanket more closely around Scarlett's feet. "Wade told us that you are going to Tara. I—we think it will be so good for you to be home," she went on. "And the children will love it there! Wade always— I think it will be wonderful to replace some old memories with happier ones."

Scarlett smiled at the mention of Tara and wondered how Melanie knew that about Wade. He had been so young, and they had been so hungry. How could that be? How could he love a place of such privation?

Melanie chattered happily about Tara for a few minutes. Scarlett darted glances at Ashley, who had come to stand behind a dark wingbacked chair, and seemed to be staring with grave concentration at a point just beyond one of Melanie's thin shoulders. He looked like a ghost. Scarlett even turned her head once to see what he could be staring at, but for all she could divine, it was just a patch of wall. She sniffed dismissively at his forlorn appearance.

Melanie, noticing Scarlett's diverted attention, sprang up from the sofa. "Darling, we have kept you too long. You need to rest."

Scarlett offered her a wan smile.

"Ashley dear, say goodbye to Scarlett." Melanie beckoned. "Oh, Scarlett, Tara will do you good."

Ashley walked over to stand next to his wife, still looking elsewhere—God's nightgown!—and pressed Scarlett's hand. She looked up at him through her eyelashes. "Farewell, Scarlett." His hand was cold. So was his voice.

Something flickered across his face—the first emotion she'd seen in him this visit—when, at that moment, the doorway darkened again.

"Why, Captain Butler!" Melanie cried, and her cheeks stained. Scarlett wondered why. But Melly had always been rather a goose about him. Absolutely convinced that he was really a very decent gentleman, but so embarrassed by him, nonetheless. She saw, too, with some curiosity but no energy to pursue it, that Ashley's face had also reacted to Rhett's presence in the room. Ashley looked—almost _ugly!_ —for a moment, and his eyes were sharper than Scarlett had ever seen them. There was no far-off dream in them now. Rhett, too, had gone dark and then pale so quickly she thought it might have been a trick of light, before going very even and pleasant.

"Pork told me you were here, Mrs. Wilkes. Ashley." Both men nodded. "Thank you for coming to visit. I know Scarlett will miss you while she is at Tara, but she does insist on going."

Scarlett opened her mouth to argue at this characterization. She had told him one evening when he brought her supper tray to her room that she wanted to go. He had politely, even eagerly, almost, agreed that it would be a good idea. There had been no _insisting_ —no petulance or even arguments. _Rhett_ had certainly not tried to stop her.

Melanie laughed at Rhett's words, a sweet sound that made Scarlett's teeth itch. "Well, of course she does, Captain Butler, you know that's where Scarlett gets her strength."

Scarlett frowned at them all talking as if she weren't here. As if she weren't ill. Melanie leaned down to kiss Scarlett's cheek. "Get well, my dear." Melanie whispered in her ear as she squeezed Scarlett's hand, and Scarlett felt her cheeks warm.

"Thank you for coming," Scarlett felt the inadequacy of her words.

No, seeing Ashley now did not bring her the joy it once had. So few things did, anymore, mills included. But they were _her_ mills. She had worked so hard for them, made them a success out of nothing more than grit. No one seemed to understand that! Even if they did not make her happy now, it did not mean they would not again someday. In the meantime, she decided, she would have some pretty new dresses made. She had foolishly gotten rid of many of her most recent orders—and such beautiful dresses they had been too!—thinking they would be out of fashion by the time she was next able to wear them. She wanted something pretty to wear again. She wanted something that would make her smile. She wanted the mills not to perplex her.

"I'll think about it," she told Rhett, and made a hasty retreat to her room, her nightly battle temporarily forgotten.


	6. Chapter 6

_Oh, you guys. This chapter is a bit of a departure, because, as you see: Ella TOOK OVER. And it was awesome. Happy almost double-length chapter. Team Ella forever!_

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Part 6

The next week dragged by. Scarlett felt irritated with everyone, and found herself almost helplessly tattering what little, fragile relationship she had woven between herself and Wade and Ella.

One afternoon, she was sitting in her office going over accounts. Badgering the store clerks had afforded little relief that morning, and she had come home for dinner exasperated. Near the end of a largely silent meal, Bonnie had upset Ella's milk glass. Seeing Rhett's eyes glitter in malicious warning, Scarlett had instead snapped at Ella to keep her glass further away from her little sister's reach. Ella had blushed, and mumbled, "Yes, Mother." Wade's face tinted pink, and there was a furrow between his soft brown eyes. He opened his mouth, and then closed it. Then he sat up a little straighter, and said, "May Ella and I be excused?"

Struck by how grown-up he sounded at that moment, and chastened by her own ineffectual peevishness, it was Scarlett's turn to murmur faintly, "Yes, of course."

The numbers from Ashley's ledger were impossibly bad. What a confounding mess. She could not fire him, for Melly would never forgive her. She sometimes wished she had never hired him, but if she hadn't, he would have taken the family up north, and Scarlett could not have borne that. Atlanta without Melly was… unthinkable, somehow. She could not help but feel irritation, at times, for Melly's blind devotion to her, but Melanie was almost the only person Scarlett spoke to now. With a small flash of insight, Scarlett realized how very lonely she would be without Melanie.

The exercise in self-awareness sapped what remained of Scarlett's flagging strength, and she suddenly felt very tired. She decided to rest for a few minutes, and moved from her grand desk to the narrow couch along one wall. Pressing herself toward the back, she rested her head, feeling the fine, rich fabric, soothing her at its touch. She rubbed her cheek against it, and was asleep within minutes.

Some time later, the door creaked open, and a small figure peeked around its edge. Clad in apple-green, and clutching a similarly-attired doll, Ella held her breath, only to find Mother asleep. She sighed in relief at knowing she hadn't interrupted Mother's work, and couldn't possibly upset her right now, and then gasped guiltily to think of Mother in such a way! Then she shrugged, and, holding her doll tightly to her chest, tiptoed into the room. She did not shut the door behind her, for that might make a noise, but Ella was already inside, so it would be silly to leave again. And anyway, she was very good at playing quietly with her doll.

She liked it when she looked up from playing to see Mother watching them in the doorway. Mother did not join them very often, for she was not very good at tea parties, but Ella did not mind.

Uncle Rhett had taken Bonnie and Wade for a ride on their ponies. She had been invited as well, but she did not like horses very much. They were such large creatures, and you could never tell where they were going to step. And their long tails swished and swatted your face with no warning! No, Ella had _not_ wanted to go, although it had been nice of Uncle Rhett to ask. She had not spent very much time with him in a long time. He had been away a lot this year. He often went away, but, she thought she remembered, usually not for so long. He had gone away right after the night when Mother's slippers on the stairs had woken her, and this time he had taken Bonnie with him.

Mother had gotten sick when he got back, but Ella secretly thought Mother might have already been sick when he left. She had cried out that night, and Uncle Rhett had had to carry her upstairs. And she had been different while he and Bonnie were on their trip. Mother had seemed sad, which made sense to Ella, for Ella had missed Uncle Rhett, too, and she also felt sad when she was sick. But other times, like at supper, Mother would barely eat, but she would smile faintly as she pushed food around her plate, and that made no sense to Ella. Mother did _not_ like when people pushed food around their plates instead of eating it, but now she was smiling instead. How could a person be both sadder _and_ happier? But then Mother had been really quite ill—she had heard Doctor Meade whisper that to Aunt Melanie, and the words felt marvelously grown-up to her mouth. "Really quite ill," she liked to say to herself. She longed for Mother to get better so that she could tell people she had been "really quite ill," but she was recovered now, thank you. She would sound like _such_ a lady. And Melanie had been so pale the few times she came to her own house to give them hugs, and all the adults had talked only in whispers. Ella had decided that she did not like when grown-ups spoke in whispers. Whispers meant sickness and sad, pale faces, and maybe other terrible things.

And then as soon as Mother was feeling better, they had gone away again, except this time it was Mother and Wade and she, Ella, who had gotten to take a trip instead of Uncle Rhett and Bonnie. Ella didn't think she had ever been anywhere but Atlanta, and the train was very exciting to her. She had asked too many questions, and Mother had snapped at her, and she had felt bad for angering Mother when she was so thin and white—Mother was always pale, but this was different, for some reason. And then the scenery outside the window caught her attention again, and she opened her mouth to ask about a tree, but Wade had kicked her ankle from his seat opposite, and she decided to ask about it later, perhaps when Mother was not so tired. Instead, she curled her legs under herself on the seat, out of Wade's reach, for she could remember to be quiet by herself, and leaned back against her seat.

She woke up to Mother calling her name, and she realized the train was not moving anymore. She had missed almost the whole trip! But she had been dreaming that Mother was brushing her hair, and it was a very nice dream. She was sad to wake up, but excited to see Tara, for Mother loved it very much.

Ella had thought Tara was wonderful. Even the horses there seemed better, and she was very proud of herself for finding the courage to go into the barn one day, for she had made the most wonderful discovery inside—a large orange cat had recently had a litter of kittens.

From that day forward, Ella had visited the barn every day and spent hours playing with the kittens there. She had named them all, but she did nott know a great many names, so she had to use ones she knew. The prettiest one had dark, smokey-gray fur that almost shimmered as it moved. She knew right away she wanted to name it for Mother, but it felt almost like a sin to say Mother's name, "Scarlett," out loud, when she was Mother. And you could not name a baby kitten Mother when its Mother was sitting right there watching! The black one, of course, was like Uncle Rhett, with his dark eyes and dark hair. There were two brown tabbies, but they were so different it was easy to tell them apart. One was very sweet, and always purred when Ella held her. The other tabby did not seem to like anyone or any cat, and she reminded Ella of her aunt Sue.

Ella had been nervous when the Tarletons came to call, but she decided afterward she was very glad they had. They were pleasant people, although rather loud. It had made her very tired to try to follow all of the different conversations as they talked and laughed over each other. But the Tarletons had helped Ella with her kitten problem enormously, although they did not know it, for they had given Ella two more names! It was Mrs. Tarleton who had reminded her of Mother's other name, and it seemed much less wrong to say Katie. So Katie the gray cat became, and Millie, the orange tabby, after the Tarleton girl who had spoken to her with the most kindness.

Mother spent a lot of time in a rocking chair on the porch. Once, Ella had even sat with her. Mother had seemed surprised and confused when she asked, and Ella thought she was about to say no, for Mother sighed, but then she moved the blanket away from her lap and held her arms out. This had surprised Ella most of all, as she had hoped just to sit next to Mother. She realized Mother was right—of course, Mother was always right—when she climbed up, very gingerly, and found there simply wasn't room to sit _next_ to Mother. Her perch was not as comfortable as she had hoped, but she was afraid to move and have Mother gasp and go all white again. She had thought maybe from up here she could see what it was Mother looked at when she sat in this chair. Then Mother reached under Ella's knees, awkwardly stuck into Mother's skirts, and moved Ella's legs across her own lap. It was not exactly comfortable now, still in the narrow chair with the wooden arm digging into her back, but it was better. She ducked her head in embarrassment when Mother pulled the blanket back over them both. She almost didn't want to breathe, for Mother was not often soft like this, and she was afraid to upset her. But no one in the whole world smelled as wonderful as Mother, and it was hard to _totally_ not breathe. Gradually, she had relaxed. When she fell asleep, she dreamed that Mother was brushing her hair again.

The next day, Mother had walked around in the fields with Uncle Will. Ella had watched for them from an upper window, and when she could see them again coming up over the hill, she ran out to catch them.

Mother was saying something to Uncle Will when she saw her, and she stopped to turn her attention to Ella. Her steps faltered, as she closed the distance between herself and the adults. Mother did not like interruptions, and here she was interrupting two people. She had forgotten what she came out to say under Mother's stern gaze, but then Mother had _smiled_. Her words were sharp—something about a field hand—but Ella wasn't listening for Mother had held out a hand to her. She walked over and took it, her cheeks warm from the sun and running and Mother's smile.

They walked back up the path to the house, and then Ella saw the barn. Oh yes, now she remembered! The kittens! Ella had liked Uncle Will right from the start, for he was quiet and kind, but she'd never been so grateful to him as just now, because Mother had started speaking again, and Ella could not interrupt her _again_ , but oh, they could not pass the barn! But Mother had finished whatever it was she was saying, and Uncle Will had responded with just a sound, not even a whole word. Uncle Will was wonderful! Ella gathered all the bravery she had, and said quickly, before she could lose a turn to speak again, "Mother, may I show you the kittens I found in the barn?"

Mother blinked.

Ella opened her mouth again, about to say that they didn't have to go to the barn if Mother didn't want to, but Mother spoke first.

"Oh— alright."

Ella beamed.

Uncle Will excused himself—a door that needed fixing, Ella thought he might have said, but she had not really listened. She walked with Mother to the barn and exhaled loudly when they entered the cool, dark space.

Some of the kittens were apparently already testing out their micing skills, and Ella was disappointed that they were missing. She also felt a little relieved, she thought, that the one she had named for Uncle Rhett was among them. Mother got quiet when Auntie Sue or Uncle Will mentioned him.

She pointed out Millie, and Melanie, the sweet tabby. Just then, the beautiful gray darted across the barn toward them. The cat weaved through Ella's ankles, and she laughed as its tail tickled her skin. She bent down and picked up the animal. "And this is Katie!"

Mother laughed lightly, an unfamiliar sound. "Katie the kitty?"

Ella did not know why this was funny, but she felt a warm blossom of happiness in her chest that Mother had laughed. She wrapped the cat to her chest with one arm, and wrapped the other around Mother's legs. Mother didn't say anything, but she patted Ella's shoulder. When her hand ran over Ella's head, she blushed and smiled into her mother's long skirts.

They stood in silence for a moment, and then a sudden movement and noise caught her attention again. The other brown tabby was yowling in protest at Ella holding Katie. "Susie, NO!" Ella cried, as the little cat tried to scratch her. Then a couple things happened before she could realize them, as she wondered at this animal behavior.

Mother moved Ella behind her legs, away from the squalling kitten. That mean old thing had never cared if Ella pet her before! Katie jumped down from Ella's arms, and batted at the interruption. And as an offended Susie surrendered and turned back to her micing, Ella heard a cough. She looked up, but as Mother turned around, she was not coughing at all. She was laughing! Ella didn't think she'd ever seen Mother laugh like this. Ella was not quite sure what was so funny.

"Mother?"

"You named that cat Susie?" she asked.

Suddenly, Ella wondered if she was in trouble. It had just seemed right for this cat, but now…

"I suppose that cat is always mean?" Mother asked. Ella was certain she was in trouble now, but she knew she would be in more trouble if she did not answer two of Mother's questions in a row. Solemnly, she nodded.

Mother bent forward and enfolded Ella in a quick hug. Her shoulders were still shaking, and the embrace so brief that Ella did not really have time to relax in it, but she smiled into it all the same.

They spent several minutes watching the kittens darting back and forth, playing with each other, and then walked back to the house. Mother held her hand the whole way.

Just before they walked up the steps to the porch, Mother stopped and turned to her. She bent low to look Ella in the eye, and put her hands on Ella's shoulders. She looked very serious, and for a heart-stopping moment, Ella thought she must be in trouble after all. She chewed her lip and waited anxiously for the sharp words. Then Mother smiled, and even the corner of her eyes crinkled, ever so briefly. "Let's don't tell Aunt Sue about the mean cat, alright?"

Ella giggled, her face hot with embarrassment and relief.

Yes, Ella reflected in Mother's office, she had loved Tara, but she loved Mother more. And she much preferred Mother well, even when she was sharp, over the mother whose quiet frightened her.


	7. Chapter 7

AN: Sorry for the delay; this story has been undergoing a bit of reorganization. For your patience, another longish (for me) chapter. Thank you, as always, for reading, following, and reviewing! How's this for Boxing Day, India Wilkes? :) Wade and Ella have always been particularly dear to me. They will be back, but for the next few episodes, we return to the Butler Marriage Sadness Sweater. Will the unraveling begin?

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Part 7

Scarlett sat at her vanity, rearranging the small pots on its surface with trembling hands while Lou stood behind her, curling, twisting, and pinning her hair. The reorganization was a futile exercise, for whenever she attempted to set a lid back in place on its jar, her shaky movements dropped it instead. The first time this happened, Lou, startled by the noise, had jerked the hot roll forward so it touched Scarlett's ear and neck. Lou had apologized, naturally, and Scarlett had wondered, irritably and out loud, why she had brought the girl back with her at all. Prissy now had full responsibility for the children, under Mammy's watchful eye, and Lou was Scarlett's maid. Lou was generally much calmer than Prissy, and always eager to deserve her place back in the house. Overall, Scarlett had been pleased with her decision, but at the moment, her smarting ear was not interested in apologies. Before she could make any overt threats, however, Lou had produced from an apron pocket a little jar of salve, and she had applied a small amount to both red marks. More importantly, perhaps sensing the lack of effect words had on her mistress, she did so silently. The quiet efficiency of the small task soothed Scarlett's flared temper, but it did little for her agitated state of mind. Her hands kept moving the little pots, cluttering the surface more than it had been when she started. Her palms were sweaty, and she had to resist the temptation to press her hands to her skirts, fearful to leave a mark on the fine fabric.

Ashley, Melanie, and Beau were to come to supper tonight. It was not the first time the adults had all four seen each other since Ashley's birthday, but it would be the first time they had spent so much time together. Scarlett was none too keen on the prospect: Melanie, all sweet innocence, Ashley, uncomfortable, guilty, and faded, Rhett silently daring or mocking, and Scarlett herself… where to begin? Scarlett had found increasing comfort in Melanie's friendship since her return, even as she felt a little foolish for it. As for Ashley, she felt no solace, no soft golden glow, from Ashley's presence anymore. Something had shifted in her relationship with him, unalterably, that day at the mills. She couldn't place it, exactly. But nothing had been right since April. He barely looked at her now. She missed his attention, his high opinion of her even if she didn't always deserve it. It was like… she suddenly remembered when Pa had torn down an old shed at Tara, one her bedroom window overlooked. It was in disrepair, it _needed_ to be torn down. She did not miss the building when it was gone. Only that she had been used to seeing it there. Funny she should think of that now.

And as for Rhett… well, he certainly wasn't a comfort, either.

Rhett, of all people, had issued the invitation one day when Melanie was visiting. Melanie had dragged her to surely the most tedious sewing circle yet this past week. Maybelle had welcomed the pair into her home with a tight smile. Her face had fallen so comically as her eyes traveled from Melanie to herself that Scarlett wished there was a way to capture such a reaction. It reminded her of the exaggerated acting in one of the plays Rhett had brought her to in New Orleans. Absently, she reached up and rubbed the skin near her ear where it suddenly itched. Maybelle's unwilling welcome revived some of Scarlett's old spirit, and she remembered how she had queened it over all those girls when she had been the most popular belle, even as the widow who shouldn't have received any attention. Scarlett straightened her shoulders and smiled back with all the grace she could muster.

"Maybelle, it is _so_ good to see you." she positively cooed, as she pressed Maybelle's hand.

"Scarlett." Maybelle replied in the usual clipped voice. "You are looking well. We were so worried for your recovery. Please, do come in, you two."

She followed Melanie inside, and saw with some satisfaction how the faces, almost to a person, had mirrored Maybelle's on seeing who the new guests were. Well! Scarlett didn't care when these women had seen her last. Butter wouldn't melt in her mouth. She sat down next to Melanie and immediately turned to her other side to engage Mrs. Whiting in conversation. She felt an almost cruel satisfaction at each word she managed to pull from the woman, knowing it was only uttered because of Melanie's presence.

After more unendurable planning sessions for some memorial or another, she and Melanie had taken their leave and returned to her house. Melanie had come inside to pick up Beau, but the children were engaged in fiercest battle negotiations. Melanie suggested they take tea to let the children finish playing, so they had gone back downstairs to the parlor.

"They are such darlings," Melanie commented happily, when they were seated.

"Of course," Scarlett replied automatically, unsure how to talk about her children. She did find them most charming when they were playing in the nursery, even if she did not know how they came up with the elaborate scenarios they chose to re-enact.

"I am so glad Wade and Beau are such good friends."

"Oh! Y- yes." Scarlett said in some confusion. "Wade is…" she trailed off, chewing her lip and considering her words with care. "Wade is so quiet. I— I think Beau is good for him. And they are good to include Ella," she added.

"Goodness yes!" Melanie responded, blushing as always at a compliment of her son. "I like to think you and I would have been such friends if we had known each other when we were their age. Charlie and I were the only two, so there was never a possibility of leaving someone out. Did you and Suellen always include Carreen?"

Scarlett smiled. "Oh, I didn't play much with them. Sue and I always fought, and Baby—well, Carreen was just so young. Sue liked her dolls, and I didn't, so I played with all the neighborhood boys."

Melanie laughed and looked at her fondly. "Of course you did." Scarlett looked up, startled by the words—she thought suddenly and guiltily of Ashley in the orchard, but Melanie's tone was as sweet as ever, and Scarlett smiled hesitantly back. Ashley hadn't played like most of the other neighborhood boys, anyway.

"Of course my wife did what?"

Scarlett whirled around in her seat to see Rhett in the doorway. "Mrs. Wilkes, how good of you to call." He came forward, and took one of Melanie's hands in his own. "Do you know how much we value your friendship?"

Scarlett's brows drew together in a frown, and she opened her mouth to retort, but she wasn't sure what to say. Rhett's words had been spoken with the utmost sincerity—that tone he only ever used for Melanie, but she was sure they had been directed at her.

"Oh, Captain Butler, of— of course." Melanie stammered. "Scarlett was telling me she preferred to play with all the neighborhood boys when she was a girl, instead of dolls with her sisters."

"Indeed." He replied. His tone was light.

"Oh yes," Melanie continued. "We were just talking about the children."

"Oh?" Rhett quirked one eyebrow as he turned to Scarlett. "A mother's favorite subject, of course."

The poisoned barb landed a particularly effective blow against Scarlett's heart, unguarded as it was from weeks of his disinterest. It was too much. Scarlett felt the blood drain from her face, and swayed on the couch, lightheaded and dizzy—almost as sick as the last time he had said something to hurt her, nearly the last time he had said something to her. She pressed her lips together tightly as she fought the nausea and the memory his remark evoked. Rhett, seeing her go deathly pale, hurried toward her from the seat he'd been about to take. Melanie had noticed her distress, too, and rushed forward. Scarlett cringed away from Rhett's outstretched hands, and stood shakily, turning to Melanie. She drew an uneven breath, and pressed damp hands into her sides.

"My dear, I kept you out too long today. You must rest." Melanie took Scarlett's clammy hands in her own before sliding one arm around Scarlett's waist.

They walked upstairs, leaving a pale-faced Rhett alone in the parlor, his hands balled into fists and shoved deep in his pockets.

At supper that night, he told her he had invited the Wilkeses for supper the following Sunday. The brief, sneering interlude of this afternoon seemed to have passed. His voice was formal again, and grave—very nearly bored, even—no mockery or harsh tones laying traps in which she was inevitably caught. "Alright," she said quietly.

"Are you feeling better, my dear?" he asked, as he guided Bonnie's hands, holding her small glass, to her mouth. Scarlett's lips tightened. He did not look up. He did not care.

Scarlett had not answered him, turning instead to Ella and asking what kind of cake she would like for her birthday.

"I'm finished, miss." Lou's voice brought her back to the present. Scarlett met her eyes in the mirror and smiled. Lou held up the large silver-backed mirror for Scarlett to see the back of her head. Lou had styled her stubborn hair into something that looked both elaborate and simple.

"Thank you, Lou." she said, twisting her neck back and forth to admire the coiffure at different angles. She dismissed the maid, and wandered aimlessly around her room. She sat down again at the vanity, and reached for the pot of rouge.

A knock at her door had her jerk her hand away guiltily, and then she cursed herself. God's nightgown, who cared what Rhett thought of her rouge! She dabbed just a bit onto her cheeks.

"Are you ready for supper, my pet?" His deep voice echoed through her door.

Instead of responding, she walked to the door and stepped out.

~iaa~

Her eyes did not adjust well to the dark hall. The drapes in her room had been drawn back, but here, the thick wallpaper and plush carpet seemed to suck away all the light being cast by the lamps that had been lit. Rhett loomed blackly from the rest of the hall.

Her husband—she sniffed—seemed more accustomed to the gloom. His eyes swept up and down her figure, a scrutiny he had not spared her since— She straightened her shoulders and unconsciously lifted her chin under his gaze. There was nothing objectionable about her dress; it was not as typically overdone as some of her other dresses had been, but it was so beautiful she hardly minded. It was a striped silk of dark green with thin mint-colored stripes in sets of two. The short sleeves puffed up slightly at her shoulders and then flowed down in a short length of lightly beaded fringe. The topmost layer of the skirt cut away in an arc, displaying an under layer in the lighter green. It was perhaps a touch extravagant for a simple supper at home, a bit grand for company with their only friends, but Scarlett would not apologize for wearing something that made her feel beautiful. The first she had felt anything like beautiful in so many long months.

The hall suddenly felt cold, and she crossed her arms over her chest. Rhett's eyes were now drifting over her face. They came to rest on her neck.

"What happened here?" His voice was soft, low, but it lacked the usual coldness. It still felt like another trap.

"I— I burned myself. Trying to curl my hair. You know how it is." she waved her hand in the general direction of her head. She did not know why she added that last. It reminded her of New Orleans, and she did not like to think of New Orleans. Her nose tickled with memory of an acrid smell.

Rhett smiled, faintly, an expression that did not even reveal his white teeth. He reached his left hand out, brushing his fingers along the small burn. She lowered her gaze to his cravat at his touch. His thumb stroked down her neck, and Scarlett gulped awkwardly. The uncomfortable sound was noisy in this quiet, dim hall. Her skin, cooled by the small application of salve, warmed again under his touch. She risked looking up at him through her lashes. He was not looking at her, at least not at her face. He was staring at his own hand, as if transfixed.

She swallowed again, and felt his thumb dip into her skin with the movement. His touch was so soft it bruised, a caress that was somehow both terrible and tender. She felt her heartbeat, racing, and knew he would feel it in the grooves of his fingerprint, too. He was standing too close to her; she could smell that old, familiar mixture of tobacco and horses and Rhett. How that had used to comfort her! Her stomach hurt now, and tears pricked her eyes. She remembered, from a lifetime ago, gentle words from another night. _"There, there, darling... Don't cry. You shall go home, my brave little girl. You shall go home. Don't cry."_ Her hands clenched along with her jaw to steel herself from letting them fall. Her nails left marks on her palms. What was there to cry about?

She lifted her chin, openly looking at him, unaware of the emotions that blazed in her eyes. Dark eyes met light for half a breath as time stilled. After a moment, he seemed to recall himself, shaking his head briefly. He withdrew his hand from her skin, and his face changed, the new but already familiar disinterest falling back into place. Only his eyes still seemed to echo whatever emotions had driven this strange demeanor, dark but somehow turbulent. He slid his hand into his pocket and held his arm out to her. "Shall we?"

Scarlett gave him a brittle smile and took his arm.

As they approached the newel post, she drew a deep breath. Her side just grazed Rhett's arm with the inhalation. She breathed out, slow and silent. Her fingers almost trembled, and with a ruthless calm she did not feel, she flexed them and loosened her grip on Rhett's sleeve. His right hand came to cover hers just as it was about to slip from the crook of his elbow, but he pulled her hand back, cupping her fingers around his bicep more fully, as he drew his left arm, and her with it, toward his body. His muscles were rigidly tense under her hand. She was reminded of when they had last stepped out of the carriage at Melanie's house. He had been cool, implacable granite then, his arm stiff with anger. He did not seem cool now; he fairly vibrated with heat. His body was stiff and unyielding, but his grip on her was secure. She glanced up at his face, but his profile gave away little. He moved with his usual effortless grace, his mouth carefully bland. Only his eyes seemed to burn, but they were not on her. Instead, he stared at the polished wood in front of them. Wordlessly, they made their way down to the parlor.

She had decided to sell the mills. She was not sure, exactly, how she had come to the decision, and it wasn't an entirely happy one to have made. She was not pleased by having them anymore, and she was not pleased to be giving them up, either. With both prospects giving her equal measures of frustration, she had decided to let them go. If Ashley wanted to buy them, he could have them. She could take his offer and use it to start a new business. She had already started thinking, though somewhat unenthusiastically, of what her next venture might be. She knew, somehow, that she would regret giving up her mills, but they were not what they once had been. She also half-suspected she would regret not giving them up more. And once she had decided that, she did not want to think about and second-guess herself anymore. She would sign the papers after supper tonight.

She sat in the parlor, vaguely wondering what Rhett was thinking. He stood at the mantle, staring into the fireplace. He had not seemed to care when she told him of her decision. He wasn't happy, or angry, or relieved. She had suspected, once, that he was behind this business with the mills. But his total indifference when she informed him, after the weeks of suspense, that she would sell, had thrown her into confusion again. The man's motivations would never be clear to her, and she told herself that was fine with her. He looked very somber, right at this moment, looking intently at the empty grate. Perhaps, she thought uncharitably, he was practicing sincerity for when Melanie arrived. Did he have to exercise that trait, before encounters with her sister-in-law? He certainly never used it with her.

She peered up at him through her lashes. She wondered if he looked different. Worried, almost. Probably she just hadn't really looked at him in… well, a very long time.

"Scarlett," he started. His dark eyes looked turbulent again, like they had in the upstairs hall. He moved to stand before her. "I—"

"Mist' Rhett, Miss Scarlett, the Wilkeses here for supper." Pork interrupted.

Scarlett jumped at the unexpected noise. Her hand flew to her throat where she could feel her heart, beating rapidly. She was so grateful for the interruption, she thought she had never been so thankful for the existence of Melanie Wilkes in her life. Rhett had sounded so _serious_. She didn't know what he had planned to say, and frankly, she didn't care.

She hurried to the door to welcome their guests, Rhett following behind.


	8. Chapter 8

AN: Thank you all so so much for your reviews to the last chapter. I've loved working on every bit of this story, but the hall scene might be my favorite. I'm so thrilled that it resonated with you, too. You got everything I was trying to convey! Lostie, I didn't characterize Scarlett's action as a "recoil," which to me is more almost subconscious, and connotes disgust, but a deliberate showing partly of anger (at him, with herself, etc.) and partly of fortitude (—she doesn't need _him;_ she doesn't need anyone!); not that you are wrong, I just enjoyed your perspective! On Rhett's reaction, we are 100% simpatico. Ahhhtonement.

Old Maid Wilkes, I hadn't planned on actually showing the dinner, since that scene is in the book, but it ended up finding its way in—thank you for the suggestion and inspiration! Moderately/heavily borrowed from the book, but I tried to put my own spin on a few aspects. All credit, as always, to Mags, our auteur original.

Addressing Scarlett's Reputation with the Old Guard: Is This One Story Attempting Too Much? A Lifetime Original Fanfiction.

Thank you for reading!

* * *

Part 8

When she had signed the papers and the mills were irrevocably gone and Melanie was passing small glasses of wine to Ashley and Rhett to celebrate the transaction, Scarlett felt bereft, as though she had sold one of her children.

She stared glumly at her own wine glass, frustrated that she had known how it would be.

"Oh, damn Rhett!" she thought and as she watched him the conviction grew that he was at the bottom of all this. Just how and why she did not know.

Already, they were talking about ways to hemorrhage profits—though, of course, Ashley did not think of it in quite those terms. Turn back convicts, indeed! She fumed silently, but felt sure that Rhett was waiting for her to speak, to defend her practices, _something_ —and she would rather die than give him the satisfaction.

Rhett had always listened to her business plans and encouraged her schemes with relish. And here was Ashley, faded as ever, only showing resolution in something sure to ruin him! What good was honor of that kind?

Rhett asked him something about tainted money. Scarlett felt too dazed to listen fully. Rhett's voice told her he was goading someone—whether it was her or Ashley, she didn't care. Was that what the scene in the hall had been about? Seeming kind, making her think… just to tease her again?

"I didn't have to swallow it. I believed it long before he preached on it."

Their words drifted down through her conscious and settled themselves in her brain. _He must think all my money is tainted!_ Scarlett thought to herself. _Because I worked convicts and own saloon property_. _But that didn't stop him from taking a job with me!_ Damn him, thought Scarlett, vehemently. Her eyes flicked down the table, and she saw Rhett looking back at her—not in the quiet, somber way of late, but speculatively, and with what must be a gleam in his eye. _I'd like to crack their heads together!_ She swallowed her wrath and tried to assume an aloof air of dignity but with little success.

Ashley must have realized how his answer sounded, for he turned to her. "Scarlett, don't think I'm criticizing you! I'm not. It's just that we look at things in different ways and what is good for you might not be good for me."

Once, she would have wished that they were alone, wished ardently that Rhett and Melanie were at the end of the earth, so she could cry out, "But I want to look at things the way you look at them! Tell me just what you mean, so I can understand and be like you!"

She did not feel that way now. She couldn't bring herself to care what he thought, except to judge him for thinking it while profiting from a system he thought to be so cruel. She was not mad at him, only frustrated that he would erode her hard work so much more quickly. She shrugged carelessly. "I'm sure it's your own business, Ashley, and far be it from me to tell you how to run it. But, I must say, I do not understand your attitude or your remarks."

"I've offended you, Scarlett, and I did not mean to. You must believe me and forgive me. There is nothing enigmatic in what I said. It is only that I believe that money which comes in certain ways seldom brings happiness."

"But you're wrong!" she cried, unable to restrain herself any longer. "Look at me! You know how my money came. You know how things were before I made my money! You remember that winter at Tara? It was so cold and we were cutting up the carpets for shoes and there wasn't enough to eat and we used to wonder how we were going to give Beau and Wade an education. You remem—" Her chest heaved, and she could not speak, those memories too painful, and seeming so recent.

"I remember," said Ashley tiredly, "but I'd rather forget." How unlike his reverie the afternoon of his party! What use was it to only remember old days that could not come back, and forget the hardship that made success now so much sweeter?

"Well, you can't say any of us were happy then, can you? And look at us now! You've a nice home and a good future. And our children have everything they want. Well, how did I get the money to make it possible? Off trees? No, sir! Convicts and saloon rentals and—"

"And don't forget murdering that Yankee," said Rhett softly. "He really gave you your start."

Scarlett swung on him, furious words on her lips.

"And the money has made you—" his voice was poisonously sweet, and she thought of his other jabs, about mothering, and her _charms_ … She felt suddenly like weeping, like she had on that terrible morning in April, and stopped short, her mouth open. Rhett looked back at her, his eyes roving over her face, as they had in the hall. Her mouth snapped shut audibly. Her cheeks burned with bewildering hurt, and wounded pride.

His voice changed, "—very, very happy, hasn't it, darling?" he asked, now sounding quiet, and tired.

Scarlett's eyes went swiftly to the eyes of their guests. Melanie was almost crying with embarrassment, Ashley was suddenly bleak and withdrawn. When she looked back at Rhett, he actually seemed chagrined, as if he regretted talking to her at all. She longed to cry out, "But of course, it's made me happy!"

But somehow, she could not speak.

~iaa~

As Scarlett had suspected, selling the mills did not make her happy. It was a relief not to have to think about them, and scheme to keep ahead of Ashley's inevitable losses. But although the joyful grit of running them and making them successful had dimmed considerably—long before April, even— it had at least been something to devote her mind to. She remembered soldiers, lying miserable in the sweltering heat, who had lost legs. Some of them clawed at empty air, scratching a limb that was no longer there. The mills felt like that, sometimes. She would think of a way to increase production, and remember she had no use for it. It made her feel bored and fitful. She was _not_ a soldier who couldn't accept a change to her circumstances!

Ella's birthday offered a small distraction from the humdrum of her days. Scarlett hosted a small party to mark the occasion. Almost as soon as she had spoken the idea out loud, she began to regret it. Children's parties were neither an established forte of hers, nor were they an exciting task to entice her mind. She didn't know what games children played. More often than not, they made something up, anyway. And Ella was always so content just to play with dolls. When Melanie offered to help, Scarlett gratefully accepted.

Melanie suggested a few activities and games for the children to play. Scarlett had little to do but tell her Ella had asked for a strawberry cake. Melly had also broached the subject of a guest list.

"Scarlett, darling, how many people are you expecting?"

Scarlett frowned. It was just a family party—the elder Hamilton siblings, if both would consent to come, Melanie, Ashley, and Beau. Who else would there be? _Out of children's parties…_ the words rose, ghostly, from her memory to her conscious, followed by the now familiar taunt, "Why, a cat's a better mother than you!" She frowned and swallowed past it.

"Well, four children," she began. "The six adults—if we can convince both Uncle Henry and Aunt Pitty to be in attendance, that is," she gave Melanie a knowing glance, and Melly laughed softly.

"Dear Uncle Henry," Melanie shook her head fondly. "Any other children, Scarlett?" she asked carefully. "The Picards' little girl is just a bit younger than Ella. Raoul might come as well, to play with Beau and Wade."

Irritation crackled across Scarlett's chest at such an insipid question. "No one else will come, Melly," she snapped, angry that such elaboration was necessary.

"Oh, I don't know," Melly replied mysteriously, looking at her neat, precise handwriting. Her downturned face hid the martial glint in her eyes, the sword-dragging determination. To Scarlett's ears, it was a dreamy tone, and she rolled her eyes at her friend's willful blindness to what everyone else in this town thought of her.

"If you want to receive people's regrets, I'll leave you to it," she huffed.

Melanie's answer was a noncommittal _hmm_ , which led Scarlett to incorrectly assume that she would let the matter drop. Melanie, on the other hand, had no intention of letting the opportunity pass, and she remembered all too clearly the triumphant bright glints in people's eyes when Captain Butler had shown up alone with Bonnie at Raoul's birthday picnic.

Invitations, written carefully as they were in Mrs. Wilkes' name, were issued to a select few families, and those who did receive them were thus unable to decline. They reasoned to themselves that attending a party hosted by Melanie Wilkes, and in honor of little Ella Kennedy, would not humble them or even truly require them to admit they had been wrong in believing any of the rumors that had swirled around town since spring, and enveloped and smothered it since Captain Butler's return in the summer. Even if Scarlett _would_ be in attendance.

Too, there was the added bonus—the most malicious undercurrents of which even Melanie was unaware—that they would get to observe interactions between Scarlett, her husband, and Ashley Wilkes for the first time since the night of Ashley's birthday party. That occasion had proved itself remarkably unsatisfactory to anyone wishing to gossip, although it had in fact only _fueled_ gossip. It had not stopped them, but neither had it satisfied their thirst for drama and revenge. And to observe the unhappy trio now, with so much more having happened since that night in April! Captain Butler's abrupt departure immediately thereafter, the long journey with their daughter, the baby whose loss was learned of concurrent with its existence.

If Melanie was hosting the party, India _must_ have been lying, but no right-thinking person could be expected to eschew the opportunity to see them all together, and finally see for themselves that they had been right in thinking so all along.

So it was, that a small, but surprising collection of Atlanta society arrived at Scarlett's house to celebrate the birthday of a girl they'd never overly cared for, except to pity her poor dear papa's demise and reflect on the mother's unwomanly conduct that had precipitated that sad event.

The Picards were the first unexpected guests to arrive, Raoul and little Marguerite, called Daisy, in tow. Maybelle was less cold to Scarlett than she had been in welcoming Scarlett to her home, although she was by no means friendly. It was her bow-legged husband whose flattery cheered Scarlett, as the little Zouave, of a height with Scarlett herself, kissed her cheek and declared Mrs. Butler "ze second mos' beautiful lady een Georgia."

She chatted briefly with both him and Maybelle.

Rene had been one of the first people she'd seen when she came back to Atlanta; he was war-hardened but still merry. She remembered how fiercely proud she had felt of the town in those earliest days, as it showed the resolute signs of rebuilding from the wreckage. It almost seemed like Rene remembered her as she had been then, and the thought warmed her heart as even the grandest flattery could not.

Andy and Emily Bonnell arrived next, with their small son. Frank ran off in search of Raoul, and Scarlett turned to the new guests. They chatted amiably, too, for a short while. The men involved in the raid that had killed Frank had always held Scarlett in higher esteem than their wives. It was not half so embarrassing to be known for brawling in bawdy houses as it was to be the wife of a man who did so. Most of the men had borne their shame with a cheerful equanimity, and Andy seemed no different. Emily was much cooler toward Scarlett, following the pattern of the Picards, but she would not and could not be rude under Melanie's invitation.

She was also pleasantly surprised and relieved to find the backyard far less ostentatious than the interior of the house. _No windows or walls to hang gilt mirrors and dark red curtains_ , she thought ruefully.

Much to the genteel Mrs. Bonnell's shock, it was Scarlett's own behavior that did the most to raise her esteem of the scandalous Mrs. Butler. Throughout the party, she appeared sincere in conversations with herself, Maybelle and Melanie. Emily also observed Scarlett's interactions with little Ella. Rhett was clearly Bonnie's favorite parent, but Ella was almost as likely to be seen reporting to Scarlett where and with whom she had just played, as she was to be playing with the other children. Children had a way of recognizing kindness, and Ella seemed to find it in her mother. Emily had heard from no less of an authority than Mrs. Merriwether herself that Scarlett didn't care for any of her children. Gossip could hardly be undone in the work of an afternoon, but Scarlett's interactions with her children—warm, if stilted—led her to wonder what else Rumor may have been wrong about.

Maybelle, too, watched Scarlett. She had a longer history and more personal grievances with Scarlett. It is entirely possible that she watched Mrs. Butler only to find blameworthy behavior. She came away from the exercise entirely unsatisfied. Scarlett was cordial, if quieter than she had used to be. She was neither outrageous nor so demure as to remind others of a fallen, castigated wife's guilt. Her eyes searched for her husband, not Ashley. It was confusing. And it was to Scarlett's advantage that she had absolutely no idea the thoughts revolving in the two ladies' heads. If she had, her eyes might have gleamed in predatory triumph, and undone any goodwill she unknowingly cultivated.

She only knew that Ella couldn't seem to participate in any game or activity without reporting to her on the previous one; that she had enjoyed her strawberry cake; and that Rhett, damn him, always seemed to be in her line of sight.

* * *

 _Love? Hate? Discuss. Debate!_


	9. Chapter 9

_AN: Thank you all for your reviews. I'm sorry for this seeming stalemate; Scarlett's grief is sticky and muddled_ _—largely because it is so unacknowledged (_ _and I need a more ruthless editor than I have been so far.) But I think Scarlett has to acknowledge her losses and come to some kind of terms with them; I don't think she and Rhett can ever be happy if she doesn't. It's also important to me that she rebuild some kind of relationship with the people of the town (here, I'm really just moving up her feelings in the book from after Bonnie's death—so many things could be fixed if only she realized them sooner!) so that she'd have more of a safety net if any more of the book tragedies were to befall her. If I could go back and post this story now, I would combine several of the earlier chapters to make it less lumpy. I've never been good at killing your darlings. I'd fix it now, but then your reviews wouldn't correctly match the chapters anymore._

 _Anyway, I promise, confrontation is just around the corner. I do know where we're going, it just took me awhile to get there. Thank you for reading!_

* * *

Part 9

Autumn chilled into winter, and the atmosphere inside the house on Peachtree largely reflected the temperatures outside. The brief flares of jeering and barbs that had occasionally marked the beginning of her return grew ever more seldom as Rhett's cold, impersonal manner gradually spread to cover all their interactions in a thick frost of terrible politeness. He never referred to anything, pleasant or unpleasant, from their past. A stranger observing their few mealtime conversations might have thought they were meeting for the first time.

Rhett's demeanor had changed—changed wasn't even the right word for it—again, once she had sold the mills. The arguments they might have had once now evaporated under his imperturbability. She feared he was holding her at a distance. She feared that he was not holding her at a distance at all, that he simply didn't care. Not that _she_ cared, she reminded herself. She still wondered if he had maneuvered the sale of the mills. Once, she would have been sure of it—anything to separate her from Ashley Wilkes—but he only grew more polite and distant once they were gone. Any other man would have been happy to see them gone, to spend more time with her. But Rhett didn't seem any happier, and he did not try to spend time with her.

The children's enthusiasm for Christmas scraped, metallic, against Scarlett's nerves. As the day drew nearer, she felt unmistakable dread, for which she could not account. Rhett would dote on Bonnie, of course, but he would include Wade and Ella in his largesse. He was always generous to them—he had always been generous to them, and she knew she would be generous, too. Their house was large and safe; they were well-clothed and well-fed. They even seemed happy, chattering on at supper as they did. She was occasionally included in these little conversations. Only the children tried to draw her in. Rhett rarely spoke to her.

He escorted her down to supper every night, an act of feigned sympathy or guilt that sat under her skin, feverish and itchy. Here in their house, there was no reason to pretend _anything_.

She bristled at his false concern. It only served to remind her of things like Pauline's letter, airing his _distress_ over her work outside the house to her family. He had encouraged her to flout convention, helped her in her business ventures, and then abandoned her to ostracism as he hewed a path, long overgrown with insults and outrageous acts, back to respectability for himself and Bonnie alone.

The new friends she had gathered to her in the first days of her marriage drifted away as their little and not so little frauds and schemes were uncovered. Scarlett barely noticed the first of these absences. They must have started during Rhett's—when Rhett had taken Bonnie. Melanie had been at her side like a cocklebur those months, which must have discouraged them from coming to call. Their ranks thinned, unbeknownst to her, during this time, and then Rhett had come home...

Mamie had written to her, once, during her convalescence.

 _"My dearest Scarlett,_

 _The girls and I have been just worried sick over you ever since we heard about your fall. Bridget and I were declaring that we miss you terribly. Whist hasn't been any fun at all without you, and of course, our grave concern over your illness has dampened spirits that would otherwise have rallied had your prolonged absence been for any other reason…"_

Her fawning, sugary obsequiousness made Scarlett's weak stomach roll. She remembered Mamie's suggestion, and her eyes flicked to the chair by the fireplace, where Rhett had been sitting when she had stormed up the stairs that evening. She thought of the hard, driving worry on his face that night, and the girl who had died—of how she, Scarlett, had almost died, and the baby had. A vicious pain spiked through her middle, and she did not even realize tears were rolling down her cheeks until one dropped onto Mamie's heavily-perfumed paper. Scarlett staggered up from the bed, an activity that had only been allowed for a few days, and threw the letter and envelope into the fire.

The exertion after so many days of bleak illness and desperate rest exhausted her to the point of illness. She stumbled back to the bed, but could make it no further than the bedpost. She clung to the heavy, carved wood, pressing her cheek to its cool, gleaming surface, concentrating with all her might on the discomfort of this flat, hard post against her skin, digging into her cheekbone and jaw, instead of the terrible memories breaking over her and the bile in her stomach.

Rhett found her, asleep on her feet, some minutes later when he opened her door to bring in the dinner tray. An ornamental table sat just next to the door, or he surely would have dropped the tray at the sight, and in doing so, startled and further injured Scarlett. He rushed to the forlorn figure of his wife, prying her hands from around the bedpost, and bent to lift her into his arms. She was so terribly pale. Her head lolled sickeningly against his shoulder as he walked around to place her back on the bed. Her breathing seemed shallow. He took in her form in the bright afternoon sun, one hand in an impotent fist at his side. She was thin—too thin, and the pale skin so prized by society too white, lacking in any bloom or blush of life. She looked ill—weak in a way she had not, even when she had been starving and come to sell herself for Tara. Recriminations boiled in his gut.

A tremor arced down his spine and he laid one hand on her forehead, taking in her tear-stained face. It was slick with sweat, but she did not feel feverish. Overwarm from the fire, perhaps, and he wondered why the hell she had been standing near it. He wondered why she had been standing at all. She had only been allowed out of bed within the last week, and that certainly not without assistance. Her nightgown was damp with sweat, and he gave half a thought to changing it for her, before thinking better of it. She would fight him and make herself even sicker if she woke up. Her clammy skin was covered in goosebumps. It would not do to stay in these clothes, he realized, in the midst of pulling the sheet up over her shoulders. He laid it back down and walked over instead to the bell pull.

A maid—he couldn't remember the girl's name right now, but if she was the one supposed to have been keeping watch and had let Scarlett get out of bed unassisted, no banishment to Tara would do; she would be out on her ear by supper, he thought blackly—hurried in, and Rhett gave brusque orders to have her and another girl, or however many it took, come in and change Mrs. Butler's nightgown. She'd taken a chill. He prowled, caged panther-like, around the room while they did as instructed, ready to be of assistance. They managed the task admirably without him, however, and when he was satisfied that Scarlett was now resting comfortably in clothing that was fresh and warm, he could only mutter, "You may go now," and then, almost as an afterthought, "Thank you."

Rhett wandered over to the fireplace, venting his frustration on it with the poker. He walked back over to check on Scarlett, brushing her cheek with the backs of two fingers. The pallor of her face was still alarming, but her skin did not feel sickly hot. Quiet as an Indian, he walked back to her dinner tray, picked it up, and stepped out.

Thereafter, Scarlett's mail arrived in her room already opened.

When she woke up that evening, she almost thought the letter had been a dream, except that her face hurt from where she had pressed it to the bedpost, and she remembered the rolling nausea that she had only just managed to keep back. She wondered if she had managed to crawl onto the bed, or if Mammy had found her.

This house was too much. Too dark, too sad, too much in her recent memory. When Rhett brought her supper tray to her that night, he stayed with her as she ate half a bowl of broth. He stood in her periphery, nearly out of sight. He did not help, even when her hand shook, until soup splashed out of the spoon. Then he moved toward her, pulling a silk handkerchief from inside his coat pocket. He silently patted dry the small spills.

"I'd like to go to Tara." The thought was on her lips before it had consciously formed itself in her mind, but having said it, she realized it was exactly what she needed. Time away, away from Atlanta—if Rhett could leave with no warning, then so could she!—and Tara would bring her peace.

"When Dr. Meade assures me that you are well enough to travel, I will make the arrangements." It was nice to be taken care of, to exchange two words with him without being on the receiving end of a cruel joke or his ire. It made her very tired.

"Thank you," she said, moving her arms as if to lift the tray up to him. He hurried forward, grasping the ivory handles before she could close her hand around one. He lifted the tray from her lap with ease.

"Good night, Scarlett." he said, looking at her before moving away. Her eyelids were beginning to droop closed. She was already asleep when he reached the door. "Sleep well," he whispered as he shut the door behind him.

She hadn't answered Mamie's letter, and nothing else from any friends arrived. The lack of contact did not overly disturb her. Those people did not know her, know her struggles. She missed laughing with them, but she did not miss _them_. When more vanished, as suddenly as they had appeared, with Bullock's disgrace, she barely noticed it, and even when she did, she could not say it _troubled_ her.

She could not put a finger on what was wrong, and it frustrated her. It was like trying to sum a column of numbers and having the ink fade away on the page as she did so.

It seemed as if all the fun had gone out of life, but while her illness seemed a very logical starting point for her strange ennui, it did not exactly seem correct, either. Sometimes she thought the fun had gone out of life long before July. She tried not to think of this at all, but when she lay awake at night, trying to calm her racing heart, and hoping that if sleep reclaimed her, her nightmares would not—she did not know when this had happened.

She only knew that Rhett was distant, cold in a way that he never had been before, a way that frightened her. Not even cold, really, not like before when he had been biting and mean. His anger for so long had frozen her, but it thawed now into politeness that only revealed branches killed by frost, a bright sun that held no warmth. The walk down to supper was solicitousness itself, but it angered her that he should put on a show for their servants, the doting husband caring so for his sick wife. Well! She was not sick anymore, and he did not care.

She sat down, hard, on her chair when they reached the dining room. She would endure another endless family supper, and listen with gritted teeth and feigned enthusiasm to the children's lists for Santa. Rhett was jovial, kind to the servants and children, telling outlandish, censored tales of Christmases in California and the Caribbean. She could match Rhett in faked emotion, she decided—possibly even outdo him. But her cheerful mask was not all faked; she _did_ want the children's holiday to be a happy one. She could show everyone what a good mother she was—or at least what a good mother she had always intended to be, listening to them and playing with them. She had succeeded at Ella's birthday party, had she not?

It was only that she dreaded the holiday festivities, and did not know why.

~iaa~

To the surprise of everyone in Atlanta, or at least all of Atlanta that was Catholic – those citizens of other denominations would have to wait a day for the gossipy news – on Christmas Eve, the Butler family could be found attending Mass. Rhett blandly accepted this fact of religious ceremony as he accepted anything else she said these days, with a total lack of concern or interest.

"I want to take the children to Christmas Mass," she began, one night in the regular, blanketing silence between them that followed supper. Although she had long since learned why he stayed at the table—even with the mills themselves now sold—they still drank coffee together, alone, and in silence. "We should—" she stopped and cleared her throat lightly. She sounded hoarse. "We should go as a family," she finished. She lifted her chin and looked straight at him. He was looking at her speculatively, but without real curiosity. She had not surprised emotion on his face for some time now. Her chest tickled.

"Very well."

She waited for the jeer, but one did not seem forthcoming. After a moment, she gave a brief nod and pushed back her chair.

"Good night," she wished Rhett automatically as she passed his chair on her way out the door.

"Good night, Scarlett."

Her steps felt heavy as she ascended the staircase.

The next several days passed quickly, and Scarlett found herself waking on Christmas Eve morning sooner than it seemed possible. This year had trudged slowly on through mud, and flown by. Her illness seemed very long ago, indeed, and sometimes Ashley's birthday seemed like it had been yesterday.

She spent a short morning at the store, rearranging a display of plates herself when the clerk could not do it to her satisfaction.

Returning home, she had thought of decorating the tree with the children, but Rhett had taken them all for a carriage ride. It was just as well, she supposed, because they could hardly be counted on to make a task more efficient.

After supper that evening, Scarlett returned to her room, though there was no need to change her dress. She thought about exchanging her emerald earbobs for something smaller and plainer, but they complemented her eyes so nicely. Anyway, a demure pair of earrings wasn't going to convince the Old Guard to accept her, and she didn't want it to. She could wear sackcloth and they would only ever care about when she _hadn't_ worn black, behave respectably and they would only remember when she had danced, refused to starve, and married too soon. She did not want their hypocrisy, and she did not miss the years of war and siege, of deprivation and hardship, either. Something about those days, though… they had woven her together with everyone else. She remembered Maybelle, her fingers digging into Scarlett's arm as she lamented the Home Guard's sad, weary exit to futile battles. There had been something nice to being a part of their group. But they would have to accept her for who she was. Her earrings would stay.

Ella's birthday party had unknowingly placed her back on a path to something like respectability. Reports of Scarlett's behavior, traveling all the faster for so few people having witnessed it, succeeded in placing many tiny fissures in the ice around the Old Guard's collective heart, but it would be some time before she felt any effect from those simple acts.

Rhett's knock at her door interrupted any descent into reverie she might have started. Damn him! She had hoped to escape downstairs without his pitying escort.

They performed his infernal nightly ritual of duty and kindness in customary silence. As they approached the top step, she loosened her hold in his elbow, and he, with unerring instincts, covered her hand with his own, drawing her into him. His hand was warm—too warm. His skin burned her now.

The only sound was her slow, steady breathing, and her skirts rustling softly against his trousers and the stairs.

They walked into the parlor to wait for the children.

"Are you trying to rid yourself of me, my pet? Low beast that I am, I will surely be struck down the minute my boot crosses the threshold." The soft edge of his reply cut her, the rough silk of his words scraping across her breastbone.

Scarlett looked up at him in bewildered hurt, before her old pride drew itself about her like a cloak.

"Why, Rhett," she began, fluttering her eyelashes like she had not done in ages, her voice cool and sweet and airy. She pressed her nails into his arm as she spoke, the fine fabrics blunting the effect she desired. "How you do run on. If I wanted to be rid of you, I'd just tell you I wanted you to stay."

She smiled then, a predatory, feline expression that extended to her eyes, making them glint madly, removed her hand from his arm, and moved with all deliberate speed to sit on the sofa. She could not look at him to see that her words had any effect.

Her stays pressed into her sides, and she struggled to take in enough air. What had possessed her to say such a thing! After weeks of cool, empty amiability in the house, to risk Rhett's anger once more… And to risk it now, at Christmas! It would ruin all her plans if they fought now; if he provoked her, and her sharp-tongued response upset the children, she could not show what a good mother she wanted to be! Damn him. He was always ruining her careful plans with a sideways remark that caused hot words to helplessly bubble up from her throat, usually much to his delight.

She heard Prissy's high-pitched voice, fussing, calling to a heedless Miss Bonnie to mind, and then childish footsteps clomping down the staircase. Scarlett walked back to the doorway and watched as Bonnie walked downstairs on stout legs, one plump fist grasping each baluster as she climbed down the stairs alone. Two stairs ahead of her, Wade slowly made his way down, his body angled back, his eyes on his youngest sister. Behind them, Ella held Prissy's hand tightly, her other arm at an awkward angle as she held onto the handrail. Scarlett could not help but smile as she watched the procession, each child's nature so clearly on display: somber, watchful Wade, timid Ella, and darling Bonnie, so fiercely independent.

Bonnie, and Ella, too, looked very charming in their festive Christmas frocks. Ella smiled when she saw her mother standing in the doorway.

Scarlett felt Rhett walk up behind her, the layers of clothing on her back doing nothing to stop the heat from his body piercing through to her skin. The almost content expression slid from her face.

"Come along, children. We mustn't be late," she snapped.

~iaa~

Scarlett's sleep was more disturbed than usual that night. The strain of looking like a happy family should have exhausted her. Even the energizing triumph of giving Atlanta's gossiping tongues nothing to talk about could not overcome how sapped of energy she felt. And yet her mind buzzed like so many bees. She remembered, though she would rather not, being too tired to sleep after a day picking cotton in the fields at Tara. Then, she had carried the worry of caring for her sick and starving family. The knowledge that she was working as hard as she possibly could, and that it still wasn't enough. She should not feel that way now. Her family was safe: healthy and cared for—almost more secure than ever, with foolish Ashley insisting on such a high selling price for her mills. Her fortune was probably a pittance compared to Rhett's hoard of Confederate gold, but she liked knowing that some of her money really was _hers_ , whatever the laws of man might say.

She should feel safe and secure, but she could not, and this futile fret of nerves baffled and angered her. It made her feel helpless like Pitty, and Scarlett was not helpless. But her dream seemed to have pushed through consciousness to dog her waking steps. She felt as though some very important foundational part of her life had dropped away, and any minute she was going to fall, and there was nothing to catch her. And no amount of self-lecture about the security of banks could make this worry recede. She had not felt safe since— she rolled over to face the window. A near-full moon was bright against her eyelids, but she did not want to draw the curtains. Her thoughts chased themselves around her tired head for hours before she finally dropped off to an undisturbed, if light, sleep.


	10. Chapter 10

_Dear Self, next time you have a few productive weeks, hold. someofit. back._

 _It's been awhile, but our beautiful dumb-dumbs make it easy to recap: Scarlett and Rhett are estranged. Now it is Christmas._

 _To read is human, to review is divine._

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 _My kingdom for a horse!_

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Part 10

Christmas morning dawned, too few hours later, and Scarlett's eyes felt gritty, hot and dry with fatigue as she opened them and blinked.

What had woken her? She pushed herself up to sit in the bed and looked around the room. Christmas was here, and at least she could hope that whatever irrational dread she had about this day, it would be gone by the next time she awoke.

She tossed the covers off her legs and got out of bed. The children would be awake soon, their heads full of sugar plums and Santa, if they were not already. She sat at her vanity and studied her reflection as she methodically pulled a silver-backed hairbrush through her dark hair, subconsciously counting strokes.

Her figure, sharp with illness for so long, had finally filled back in in the appropriate places. Her cheeks gently curved again. It felt good to look in the mirror and see restoration there. She laid her hairbrush back down on the tabletop, and walked to her closet for a wrapper.

She shrugged off the brief thought of what her waist would have been—or not been—at this time, her mind helplessly calculating even when she did not wish it to, her mouth a tight line as she was tying and knotting the sash around her. As she did so, her door opened. She frowned at the impolitic intrusion; what on earth could a servant be thinking, entering her room without knocking?

Her thunderous face might have startled the said intruder, who after all, only turned out to be Ella, had she been able to see better in the dark. "Mother?" she whispered.

"I'm here, Ella." Scarlett answered from the shadows, shaking off useless dreams and smoothing her face back into placid lines. "Darling, you must knock on doors before you open them."

"I did knock, Mother. There was no answer."

Scarlett felt tickles of irritation and amusement. "Oh, Ella. No answer is not an invitation to open the door."

"Oh," Ella said, turning over this strange and totally new information in her mind. "I didn't know." Scarlett was sure she had told her this several times. "You said I had to knock before I opened doors. I knocked before I opened a door."

Scarlett laughed before she could help it. Ella had certainly followed the rule as given, even if she had no understanding for the etiquette behind it. "Let's never mind about it for today." Ella was unlikely to remember any lecture, much less one on this of all mornings. "Did you sleep well?"

Ella nodded, and hurried forward, a quick little stutter-step of excitement and hesitance that caught at Scarlett's heart. She stopped just short of Scarlett, and in a jolt of motherly impulse, Scarlett opened her arms to her daughter. Ella rushed the rest of the small distance into the embrace, and Scarlett had to blink rapidly to clear her eyes. She ran a gentle hand over the girl's soft hair. Ella wriggled and smiled up at her.

"Merry Christmas, darling."

Ella blushed. The smattering of freckles across her cheeks shone gold against pink. "Oh, merry Christmas, Mother! I forgot."

Scarlett smiled. "You forgot it was Christmas?"

"Oh no!" Ella cried. "I meant—" she paused, chewing her lip. "I came here to wish you Merry Christmas!"

"And so you have."

Ella smiled, and Scarlett cupped her cheek very briefly. In that moment, she thought Ellen would be proud of her. She hoped so, anyway. "Shall we see what Santa has brought for you?"

The girl's brown eyes sparkled as she nodded, and Scarlett was struck by how pretty she looked. She remembered uncomfortably her uncharitable thoughts toward Ella when the girl had been a baby, and many times after. Ella _hadn't_ been a pretty baby, taking after her father far too much in her earliest months. And although Scarlett's own striking features had started to assert themselves more in the little face, she still wasn't beautiful like Bonnie had been right from the start—and there should be nothing wrong with admitting that, and yet… Practicality and honesty warred with this unfamiliar maternal instinct; she felt very sure that even so, she had not done right by Ella. She continued to ponder all these things as she and Ella descended the stairs.

Wade, roused by their whispers or perhaps the internal clock intrinsic to children on Christmas morning, caught up with them halfway down the stairs. He took Scarlett's left hand, and her heart thumped at his gesture. "Merry Christmas, Mother." His soft voice was serious as the grave. It wasn't natural for a boy going on ten to be so serious! It sent a shiver down her spine. He wasn't like any of the Tarleton or Fontaine boys had been at his age. Perfect hellions, they had been, and she along with them, if Ellen and Mammy were out of sight. A hellion, she felt she would have known what to do with. Wade, she did not.

She stopped when they reached the doorway of the parlor. Ella took quick steps toward the tree, but Wade stopped next to Scarlett. She patted his head, and then bit her lip—he was far too old for such a gesture. "Merry Christmas, Wade," she said, at last.

Ella had already torn open a small parcel when they reached the sofa. "Ohhh, Mother! Look! It's so beautiful!" she breathed. She clambered onto the sofa next to Scarlett to show her a golden pin in the shape of a butterfly. It had an emerald in each wing, and small drops of amethyst gems around them.

"Yes, it's very beautiful, Ella. Did Santa bring you that?"

Ella shrugged, and Scarlett felt a smile tug at her lips. She had certainly been known to care more about the present than its giver before. Ella turned the pin over in her hands again before picking up the mess of torn paper next to her. She turned it over in her hands, too, before finding the tag.

"No, it's from Uncle Rhett. And Bonnie."

Scarlett took a deep breath and smiled at Ella again. "Well, you will have to thank them when they come downstairs."

"Yes, Mother." Ella amiably agreed.

 _If only children were always this easy_ , she mused, until Ella turned to her again.

"Mother, will you help me?" Scarlett pressed her lips together briefly, reminding herself of her plan. She mustn't let him ruin it.

"Of course, dear," she responded brightly, taking the ornament from her daughter's hand. She painstakingly pinned it to Ella's nightgown, careful to avoid the delicate lace trim on the collar, but where Ella would still be able to see it. Ella flicked at her collar, smiling down at it.

Wade, meanwhile, had opened a package containing woodworking tools. They were not quite the right size for a boy, but Scarlett thought he could grow into them. He raised soft, questioning eyes to her.

"I thought—" Scarlett cleared her throat and continued. "You liked working with your Uncle Will. And now you will have some tools of your own to…" she trailed off. It seemed foolish, now, a Hamilton and O'Hara by birth, mending fences.

Comprehension cleared Wade's eyes, though, and he looked back down at his tools. A _man's_ tools! When he looked back at her, his face was lightly pink, suffused with pride. "Thank you, Mother."

She smiled, and felt both weak with relief and _quite_ satisfied with herself. "Would you like to go to Tara again?"

Wade nodded eagerly, but Ella blurted out, "No!" and rejoined her mother on the sofa, pressing herself to Scarlett's side and starting to cry.

Startled by her daughter's reaction, Scarlett turned to look down at Ella. "Ella, you didn't like Tara?"

She felt the velvet at her side move back and forth. Ella, her face hidden in the fabric, was shaking her head. Scarlett felt keen disappointment at this—she had thought Ella had liked her home, that they all had. Well, she had been wrong about a number of things. She leaned away to try to look into her daughter's face.

"I don't want you to be sick." Ella's face was wet with tears and pale with fear. Scarlett was puzzled.

"I'm not sick." she said.

"You were sick last time." Ella wiped her eyes and continued, "You were sick and Aunt Melanie told Uncle Ashley that you were really quite ill and everyone whispered." She hiccoughed and threw her arms around Scarlett again.

"Oh, Ella," she started, patting the girl's back, not sure where to begin. "I was sick before we went to Tara. But Tara... made me feel better, remember?" Ella sniffled. "I don't have to _be_ sick to go to Tara."

"Oh." Ella's voice was still muffled in her wrapper.

"Mother!" Bonnie's piercing cry announced her presence and Rhett's.

Scarlett turned, startled by the interruption, toward the door. Rhett was already dressed for the day, his cravat a bright spot of festive green against his now typical soberly hued suits. Once, Scarlett might have thought he'd chosen it to complement her wardrobe. Bonnie, still in her long blue nightgown, was struggling to get down from her perch on his hip. He set her down and took in the domestic scene before him without a remark.

Scarlett turned her attention back to Ella and Bonnie, who had run straight to the pile of presents under the tree and plopped herself down in front of it.

"Merry Christmas, Bonnie darling," she said, smiling.

"Merry Christmas, mother!" Bonnie replied over her shoulder, her attention barely diverted from the packages in front of her.

Ella still sat curled against her side, the enchantment of new presents wiped away under fear for her mother.

Scarlett felt comforted from the weight of Ella against her, and ran her hand over the girl's hair. "Ella, don't you want to open any more presents?" she asked.

She felt the tickle of velvet move against her side a second time as Ella shook her head again.

Rhett had always easily fallen into the role of present distributor, and this year was no different. Wade and Bonnie were both more enthusiastic than they had been in the past, and had already attacked a number of gifts—Bonnie, in particular, throwing aside ones whose tags didn't start with the large "B" she was just beginning to recognize. Ella, on the other hand, was much less animated than she had been on previous Christmases. He looked questioningly at the young girl, her face downturned. His eyes barely slid over Scarlett, her arm wrapped around her older daughter, but he did not comment on the sweet tableau. Then he fell to his self-appointed task, handing around presents.

When Wade looked up—he had gone back to admiring his toolset, reverently tracing the hammer's smooth metal surface with one fingertip—and saw what Rhett was doing, he went back to the pile of presents to help pass them out, too.

He found one flat, square package with Mother's name in an elegant, strong hand. This must be from his stepfather. He wondered if perhaps Uncle Rhett would want to give her the present himself. Uncle Rhett had not spoken to Mother very much lately, but surely, Christmas… The decision was made for him when Uncle Rhett returned to the tree and saw what Wade held. "That's for your mother," he said, and Wade noticed his voice was hoarse.

"Yes, sir," he answered, lifting the parcel up to his stepfather.

Scarlett watched the little exchange between her son and her husband. She swallowed as Rhett walked toward her with the gift. He stood in front of her looking as serious as the night she had sold the mills. _"Scarlett, I—"_ he had said.

"Merry Christmas, Scarlett," he said, now. She took the package from his outstretched hand reluctantly, careful her fingers did not brush against his.

"Thank you," she responded. "Merry Christmas, Rhett." She looked into his eyes as she spoke, unwilling to let him see her fear. She felt bright flags of color, heat in her cheeks, as his unfathomable eyes gazed back at her.

Scarlett's eyes had the same hard glint they'd carried that long ago day in a converted Yankee jail. Something about it made him want to laugh: desolate humor in the face of her steely hatred against this festive backdrop.

She looked back down at the present in her lap, and slowly undid the ribbons. "What is it, Mother?" Ella asked, perking up for the first time since Rhett had come downstairs. She was peering eagerly over Scarlett's elbow.

"I don't know, silly. That's the point of wrapping," Scarlett sounded slightly exasperated, but not sharp. Her voice was gentle, a touch wry. Rhett raised one eyebrow.

Ella grinned, and rested her head against Scarlett's upper arm. "Open it," she urged.

Scarlett broke through the paper, and opened the smooth box inside. "Oh," she said, her voice low.

She looked back up at Rhett, her face soft, her eyes luminous. She had not looked at him like that since— he couldn't remember when. He swallowed roughly.

Scarlett felt her face falter when Rhett didn't say anything. But then, _she_ hadn't really said anything, either. She looked back at the contents of the box: a beautiful necklace of diamonds and pearls. She touched the stones appreciatively. It was exquisitely made; it was also somewhat simple. The diamonds weren't terribly large, there were no emeralds, nor rubies nor sapphires. It wasn't exactly her style, except… it was also quite lovely, and Scarlett took to it immediately. But what did it mean? Did he intend this to signal the end of their cold estrangement? If he did, would she accept?

She looked back up at him, and smiled hesitantly. "Will you…?" she lifted the necklace off its soft felt bed. He complied, taking the necklace from her, and working the clasp with large, deft hands. He leaned over her, and she shivered when his breath hit the top of her head, tickling her all the way down to her toes.

"It's beautiful," she offered, when he straightened. "Thank you, Rhett."

Rhett shrugged uncomfortably, all the tension from when he'd first seen the necklace flooding back and tightening his shoulders. Her reaction threw him, and he felt as unsettled as he had used to, stepping onto land again after weeks at sea. "Bonnie picked it out. She will be very happy that you like it."

"Oh," Scarlett replied, her shoulder blades twitching together in keen disappointment.

If Rhett hadn't known better, he would have thought her dismayed. But Scarlett had long ago ceased to care what thoughts lay, or didn't lay, behind his actions. She couldn't possibly care if Bonnie, and not he, had picked out a necklace. She straightened her shoulders in a gesture that would have lifted his heart years ago, and turned to Ella. "Well, Ella, what do you think?"

"It's so beautiful, Mother!" Ella sounded awestruck, and she clambered onto her knees to get a better look.

"Yes. It is." Scarlett remarked, touching the stones again absently, her voice returning to the clipped tones to which Rhett was accustomed. The cool voice he had expected to hear all along, at receiving such a tasteful gift. His lips twisted in an unkind smile that she did not see, and he pushed any lurking doubts aside.

~iaa~

A wooden packing crate stood half-hidden behind the tree. Bonnie was the first to notice it. "Daddy, open!" she demanded, pointing to it, eager to see what—as the greatest in size—must be the best present. "What is it, Daddy?" she asked.

"I don't know, precious. We'll have to see."

"You can use my tool set, sir," Wade offered. Amid the childish clamoring over mysterious gifts, no one noticed that Scarlett had gone very, very pale. She sat back against the cushions, clutching her wrapper around her throat, where the necklace lay cold and heavy on her skin. She could feel her heart beating very quickly, and she felt faint nausea, reminiscent of when she had been ill. She knew what was in the crate, and she also remembered, very certainly, why she had been dreading Christmas.

One day in late June, Melanie had met her at the store at dinnertime. It was a rare afternoon without a sewing circle planned. Scarlett wanted to visit the dressmaker, and Ella had softly asked for a new doll a few evenings ago at supper. She told Melanie of her errands, hoping to gain an afternoon to herself, but Melanie had only said, "That sounds delightful!" and that she wanted to look at ribbons for her bonnet. Scarlett gritted her teeth, but smiled.

With Melanie accompanying her, Scarlett was too embarrassed to order new dresses. She never knew if Melanie had heard—as everyone in Atlanta seemed to have—about Bonnie sleeping in Rhett's room, and all that the arrangement entailed. She knew, of course, that Melanie had lent no credence to the story of what happened at the mill—not that there _was_ any truth to that particularly story, anyway, Scarlett quickly soothed herself. And… Melanie would know about the baby, soon enough. She would _have_ to.

Still, being measured and indicating that her prized waist would cease to exist, in front of her sister-in-law, no less, was a mortification Scarlett could not bring herself to face. Instead, she discreetly made an appointment for the seamstress to visit her home next week.

At the toy store, Scarlett found a doll with smooth, dark chocolate-colored curls and light hazel eyes. It reminded her a little of both her daughters, and she swallowed past a knot of nerves as she wondered where Bonnie might be.

She chose the doll, and a set of encyclopedia for Wade.

Wandering deeper into the shop, Scarlett had noticed a beautiful little rocking horse. The craftsmanship was exquisite: intricately carved, but with a deft hand; it was both substantial and well-made, yet somehow pleasingly light to the eye. The wood that constituted the body of the horse was mahogany, a rich, dark brown that seemed to shimmer in the sunlight. Scarlett trailed her fingers along the surface, the wood sanded down to such buttery smoothness, it nearly felt soft. She was tempted to press her palms into it. The mane was of darkest walnut, curved into long black waves. It was made for a slightly older child, too big even for Bonnie, much less…

If Rhett had been home, she would have presented it to him that very afternoon. She briefly pictured the scene: Rhett, taking a hasty step toward her, his eyes bright, as they had been the night she stormed up the stairs, before it all went wrong; she, in her best green dress, cut to show a figure that had only just begun rounding softly outward, her cheeks rosy with apprehension, and something else. He would know all she meant by it, all the swirling emotions tumbling around in her head and her heart. She did not know what they all were, but he would. If he had been home. But he was not, and she did not know when or if he ever would be again.

"Do you have a horse just like this, in a smaller size?" she asked the young clerk behind the counter. She felt hungry, almost desperate about this present. It was _perfect_. They simply _had_ to have a smaller one.

"No, ma'am, Mrs. Butler," he responded. Scarlett looked up, startled, at hearing her name. Did this boy know her? She searched his face, which was blandly handsome, but found no recognition. She supposed people simply knew who she was, even if she did not know them. She moved quickly past why this could be, and decided it was because of her businesses. Disappointment landed an arrow point in her chest after the confusion of friendliness.

"Oh," she said, running her hand over the glorious velvety surface. "When can you get one?"

"I'm sorry, Mrs. Butler. That horse there is just a sample from a small company that makes these, custom order. We don't have any other like it, but you can order it from them through us."

She had placed her order, feeling oddly thwarted that she could not have this lovely thing delivered to her house today. She did not want to wait twelve weeks, but quickly calculated the timeline. September would have to do. It would not actually be useful then, anyway. Perhaps, she reasoned, she could keep it longer, and make a Christmas present of it. Her heart flipped painfully as she wondered if Christmas would be a joyous occasion. What if Rhett and Bonnie had not come home by then? What if they never did? No, they must. She swallowed harshly and pushed the thought out of her mind. She'd think about it later, or not at all.

It seemed remarkably foolish, now, she thought, sitting on the sofa, her children peering eagerly at the crate. She had completely forgotten about the purchase. Like everything else from those lonely, hopeful months, the memory had drowned in the fog of illness and despair—until now. It must have been delivered while they were away at Tara. Where had it been all this time? And how had it gotten to its place under the tree? She felt almost as overwhelmed by emotions as she had been, waking up in her sickbed, alone.

She watched as Rhett pried the nails from the crate. He lifted the front away with ease, as she noted the muscles in his shoulders tense and release. Little bits of crinkled white paper drifted down around him. Bonnie pulled on his pants leg, impatient at how long this discovery was taking. "Daddy! Daddy, what is it?"

His next words were muffled, as he reached into the crate to pull out what was inside. More paper fell like snow around the floor. "I'm sorry, darling, it's still covered up." A heavy blanket was wrapped around the mystery object. Rhett reached to untie it, and pulled the cover off with a flourish.

Collective gasps echoed around the room, Bonnie's the biggest of all. "A pony!" she shouted. "Daddy, my pony, my pony, Daddy!" she chorused over and over, bouncing on little feet now, and clapping.

"It is a beautiful rocking horse, indeed, Bonnie. Thank your mother now." he said, gently pulling her from where she now gripped his pants again.

"My pony, Mama! Thank you!" Her body was turned toward Scarlett as she said this, her head turned back to the little horse, her hand reaching out to pet it. "Pony…" she echoed, enchanted, as she ran her small hand across the smooth surface.

Rhett looked from her, back to the little rocking horse. The _little_ rocking horse. It was almost too small already for Bonnie. Was Scarlett so inattentive that she didn't see how Bonnie had grown?

"Yes, your— pony, precious." Scarlett said. Her voice was strained, and Rhett noticed for the first time that she did not look well. She was very pale, but flushed, pink against stark white, her eyes glinting fever bright.

Her voice was still slightly rough, but coldly formal, when she spoke again. "I'm afraid I have a sudden headache. If you will excuse me, I will go lie down." She stood.

Ella raised herself onto her knees from her perch on the sofa and peered up into her mother's face. "Oh no, Mother!" she cried, concern creasing her little forehead. "Please don't be sick!"

Scarlett couldn't bear Rhett's scrutiny or Ella's sweet worry. She hastened her steps toward the door, the stairs, her dark bedroom.

Rhett watched with narrowed eyes as Scarlett walked away. Ella turned to Wade and asked, "Will we go to Tara again?"

Scarlett gave no indication of sensing the unease she left behind in her wake, until she reached the doorway. Only then, her shoulders stiffened and she froze for the briefest of moments, before her velvet skirt whipped around the corner as she disappeared, when Ella cried after her, "Mother, do you need Uncle Rhett to carry you up the stairs again?"


	11. Chapter 11

_AN: Hi friends! So, if it seems like the action has jumped ahead from what you remember, make sure you read the last chapter! I posted Part 10 while ffnet's notifications were down, so emails didn't go out. (Of all the luck!) And that chapter had some Important Events. You could also refer to Say No to This for some detail._

 _Soooo many thanks to lostie, who listened to all manner of agita as I worked on Confrontation. She helped more than she knows, and more than I can express._

 _Gumper, regarding your (rightful!) wrath over the card on the gift: Is it any better if it was negligence/overindulgence on Rhett's part, rather than intentional "me and my daughter and no one else in the family"? Perhaps he was wrapping the gift and Bonnie was there, and when he went to sign Uncle Rhett, Bonnie insisted that she be on the card, too? Of course, feelings caused by negligence or carelessness are no less real than those caused by intention, but would a situation like that redeem him, at least in part?_

 _Your review = my birthday present! Especially now that we're finally getting to Rhett and THE RECKONING. (The Rhettkoning? It even double-works with retconning, which is clearly what he's been doing this whole time! But I get ahead of myself.) Thank you!_

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 _Part 11_

Rhett Butler had loved his wife very, very much, at one time. Loved her for years before he could get her. Loved her while she had been out of reach in widowhood, through war, and ultimately by marriage. Even as he kept running away because she belonged to someone else, he had risked everything to stay by her side. Risked arrest and death to have her, only to find her out of reach once again. Risked it all, and finally, his sanity and his soul.

Watching her drive to the mills, her figure growing thick with another man's child, he had thought he would go mad. It was almost lucky that poor old Frank Kennedy died when he did. A lesser man might have felt guilt over seeing his basest desire come to fruition. Not Rhett. Presented by life—or death, he supposed, to be more accurate—with the opportunity again to marry Scarlett, he did not question it. He had never been able to resist Scarlett. He couldn't resist her, even knowing how she felt about Ashley.

He had thought he could make her care. The first few months of his marriage were something like joyful. It was the slowly tightening noose of the years afterward that left him to realize that it had all been a mistake. While he could regale her with his past exploits, his heart lifted at her peals of laughter. He had seen how years as the mistress of a starving Tara and Mrs. Kennedy had tarnished her dear, precious vibrancy. He wanted to spoil her, and make her play. She had struggled for so long, and with his support, he wanted her to see that she could stop struggling. Let him fight for her, instead, and she could maybe start to see that he cared.

It was so obvious that they were right for each other. That he loved her, a greedy, unscrupulous rascal, like himself, not in spite of those flaws, but _because_ of them, in a way that no other man of her acquaintance would care to understand or love her. But she had never opened her eyes to the feelings that lay behind his gestures. Every evening, she wished it was Ashley sitting across the supper table from her. Every night, different arms that held her…

And then even the opportunity to reach her heart had been cut unexpectedly short by the suggestion of that same estimable Mr. Wilkes.

For two years after she had removed him from her bedroom and any chance at her heart, he had felt vicious pleasure in jeering at her. If he could not stir passion or love in her, he could at least provoke anger. And, he admitted to himself, hurt. Let her feel an ounce of his agony, he thought to himself. And in the end, having her and still not having her had twisted his love into weaponry, and she had nearly died.

After that savage, wonderful night in April, when he had finally broken under the strain of loving but not having her, he had finally admitted to himself that his feelings were for naught. He would never supplant Ashley in her heart, and he finally resolved to stop tilting at that one particular windmill. He was hardly quixotic, but then Scarlett was no Dulcinea.

Unable to bear her contempt, he had run away, twice, returning in between only to mock her cruelly. Throwing his infidelity in her face, he had ensured himself that her pride would be too wounded to see his hope, to uncover any of the softer emotions that had driven him that night.

It was no wonder, when he finally did come home, that she hadn't wanted his baby. Not when she loved Ashley. Not when he, Rhett, had used her and unforgivably abandoned her in the pitch of scandal. Not when he, Rhett, had taunted her over their child's paternity. Not when he, Rhett, had wrought the very loss he had so casually, callously joked about, and nearly killed her with the fall.

Of course she had not called for him.

And so he had resolved, when he put his frail, drawn wife onto the train to Tara with her children, that he would never hurt her again. If he did not care about her, he could not hurt her. It sounded weak, as an excuse, vaguely Byronic and self-sacrificing, to his ears, when he thought about it thus, and so he did not think of it. If there was a path in his heart that led to Scarlett, weeds had been growing there for years. Now, as he had begun to this spring and summer, during his trip with Bonnie, he made a conscious effort to let them grow, twisted into sharp thorns that would hold him back. He had Bonnie, Belle loved him, and he could grow accustomed to a peaceful, meaningless existence with Scarlett. Extirpate any remaining feeling, and spare her and himself further hurt. Years from now, he could walk that garden, and remember. _Ah yes, that used to lead somewhere._ Soon enough, surely, practiced indifference would become the real thing.

Except, now…

Her words last night. The soft beauty of her face when she saw the necklace; her eyes had gleamed, not with avarice, but a soft, quiet flicker he could not place. Her reaction to the toy.

Scarlett did not get _headaches_.

Without conscious thought, he crossed the room, pausing as Scarlett had done at the threshold. Unlike his wife, he turned back for a moment. Bonnie was patting one smooth rocker, her other hand giving a bottle to a doll that lay at her side. She remained unaware of the room's tense atmosphere. Ella, still kneeling on the sofa, looked at him seriously. Wade's gentle brown eyes moved between his worried sister and Rhett, his thin shoulders squared, the soft corner of a jaw showing, the essence of his mother marking itself in the boy's features for the first time. Rhett felt struck by it.

He wanted to comfort them, but he had no words. He turned on his heel.

"Scarlett!" he called, once, at the bottom of the stairs, his voice sounding harsh, his tone unintentionally threatening. He felt desperate to see into her heart, to know that calculating mind. A mind he'd always thought he understood so perfectly. And yet… none of this added up. He might be able to catch up to her, if he took the stairs two at a time. His long legs might even be able to accomplish three. He silently lessened the distance between them, but he let her ascend the staircase alone. His eyes blazed, watching the tail of her wrapper whisper against each riser, and finally disappear over the lip. The thick carpet at the top muffled the gentle sound, but he heard the swish as if it was magnified. Her breath, slightly uneven. Her door opening, and the quiet click of it closing behind her.

Rhett stood in the hallway outside her door, for how long, he didn't know. He modulated his breathing, and willed his heart to slow. He raised his hand to her doorknob, then closed it in a fist. Reaching for control, he shrugged into it like an ill-fitting garment, a shirt that had been laundered in water that was too hot. Tight across his shoulders, and still damp, sticking to his body uncomfortably.

He uncurled his fingers and took a deep breath. Reclaiming blandness as well as he could, he tried again.

Her door swung open.

He had expected it to be locked, although he had not heard a latch. Careful of the children in the parlor downstairs, little Ella's worried face fresh in his mind, he caught it before it swung too far, before it could crash into, bounce off the wall.

Scarlett was sitting on the bed, facing the window away from him. Her arms were braced on the mattress at her sides, her shoulders uncharacteristically hunched in this position.

He did not know where to begin. His caginess, his pride, his training to never give his emotions away were the reasons for his survival. They could not be undone by the faint flicker of a hope he had thought long dead. She had not offered him anything to rely on, really. There was nothing here.

 _Except…_

In the end, the old pattern of mocking, disguised truths triumphed.

"That rocking horse is rather small for our daughter, don't you think?" he asked, ready for her fight.

She did not turn to him. "You are a cad," she replied, her voice quiet and thick with… tears? "Let me be, Rhett. I am tired."

He frowned. It wasn't like her not to fight back, stinging him with insults, and her tired quiescence shifted unevenly across his chest. This was not right, this was not Scarlett, and those whispers tugged harder at his consciousness, reminding him of uncomfortable things, before blunt worry grew spikes, transforming into irritation and anger.

He made a _tsk_ ing noise, chiding her softly.

"Such docility, my gently-bred mule," he remarked, leaning his shoulder against the bedpost behind her. She would have to look over her shoulder to see him, but he adopted a casual posture, anyway, one leg crossed negligently over the other, his toe sinking into the carpet's thick nap. "It hardly becomes you, pet."

"Oh!" she cried. She stood and faced him, finally, her hands clenched in fists at her sides. "You are the most vile… _reprobate!_ You selfish _cad_ , why must you always be nasty?" It was as if a dam had broken inside, as hurts she hadn't been aware of counting and remembering all poured out, gathering strength. "With your cruel insults and hateful jests. How _dare_ you? How dare you say these things to me! Is it not enough what you say to everyone else?" She had moved toward him as she spoke, her eyes glittering with the fury he knew so well. "I know what you say about me," she continued, and Rhett thought she would claw him, catlike. But she made no further move, her hands still fisted at her sides. Her voice dropped very low, a quiet ferocity to it. " _I_ know what you say _to_ me," she punctuated that last gesturing toward her heart, thinking of one, very specific, thing he had said to her.

Rhett had relished the torrent of her words, feeling himself once more on familiar ground, before she struck. He would never forgive himself for that particular utterance, and he had allowed himself to think his own self-inflicted guilt, a fanged thing with its own gravitational pull, so quietly enormous that it did not require Scarlett's blame, too.

It felt like he was drowning in the morass of their brief, agonizing shared history. He saw one last, desperate, foothold, and reached for it. He advanced toward her, like any number of the great cats, lazily stalking its prey. His hands clasped her arms firmly, in a grip almost biting. His voice was hard and low. Angry.

"Your hard mind loves nothing more than a bargain, my dear. So I will ask you again, are you so unaware of your children that you bought a toy Bonnie would outgrow in months, or was that rocking horse intended for a different recipient?"

Scarlett did not respond, _could_ not respond. Agony clawed at her throat. How could he jest, now, at her humiliation, the revealing of her most cherished, foolish hope.

She couldn't look at him. Everything, _everything_ she had learned this year was blindingly true, and yet some stupid, secret part of her had hoped differently all this time. Only to shatter into oblivion now, on Christmas morning. Her baby, her loneliness, Rhett who said things he didn't mean, and who said things he did. She was a silly, stupid fool, and how he would laugh if he only knew! Her jaw trembled, and she felt tears gather in her eyes.

She swallowed and blinked them back, her nails making dark crescents in her palms. "As a matter of fact, Rhett, it was. I ordered it in June, when I didn't know if I would ever see you or our daughter again. I bought it for _you_." She lifted her chin, and Rhett's heart twisted at the reverent, far-off memory in her eyes. She continued, the dream in her voice now sending ice slithering into Rhett's stomach. "But I was foolish then. I've learned a _great deal_ in six months."

"So it's all my fault, is it?" Rhett asked, his voice light again, emptying of the hidden urgency driving it moments earlier.

Scarlett did not see his face go white, and misinterpreted the change in his tone. As sick as his anger had made her, its sudden disappearance frightened her even more. She raised blazing eyes to his face, searching for some meaning, any one thing to indicate how he felt, but she could find nothing.

Her voice was dry and brittle when she answered. "Of course not, Rhett. You only called me a… a—" her mind scrabbled around for the right term, "like a _Jezebel_ , and then wished me to lose the baby. Why would I blame you?"

Rhett's fingers spasmed, his hold on her arms slackened. " _You wanted the baby_ ," he thought, not even realizing he had voiced the stunning revelation. His jaw trembled, his black eyes burning with shame and regret. Scarlett was too miserable to see it. She had never learned to wield stinging, vituperative words the way Rhett could. Lacking self-awareness, her insults instead fell heavy and dull on their targets. But sometimes, truth was the sharpest weapon in a person's arsenal. Impossible to know, for a person who used it so little.

Without even being aware of it, she dealt Rhett the mortal wound.

"Of course I wanted him." And shrugging out of his loose grip, she swept past him and out of the room, squaring her shoulders as she walked, a queen in a green velvet wrapper.

~iaa~

Rhett did not know how long he sat there, a statue on an overly fringed ottoman in this room where he was a stranger. It felt like hours, as his mind dragged over her profession. Her accusation. For it _was_ an accusation. He had known Bonnie missed her mother, had known it from the first night aboard the ship when she didn't receive a goodnight kiss from Scarlett. Bonnie had been easily placated that night, but every subsequent night of their passage had found her more fractious and fretful.

He had chalked it up to homesickness and the change of surroundings for a small child. He had told himself she would get used to different circumstances. She had simply never been away from Atlanta before. Even when their truncated trip to London had verged on disaster, he had kept running away. He determined to bring his daughter back across the ocean, yet every day that brought him closer to the shore twisted the knife further into his abdomen. Finally, cowardly, he had brought Bonnie to visit her grandmother, because he still could not face Scarlett.

Months of separation, and he had let Bonnie miss her mother, because he was too scared to face his wife. Weeks of nightmares for the both of them, because he was a fool, and the mere thought of Scarlett still slickened his palms. He, who had once thought he would light himself on fire to save Bonnie from tears in the dark, had kept her away, and given the lie to his paternal devotion. When Bonnie did not cry, back at Peachtree, while Scarlett was at Tara, he let the homesickness fib exonerate him again.

It came crashing back now. And all that time, even knowing how Bonnie missed Scarlett, he had not given a single thought to Scarlett missing Bonnie.

But she had. She had missed Bonnie, had wanted their baby. _Him_ , she had said. _I wanted him_.

It was stunning, almost sickeningly so. Even in his wildest grief, most of which remained a whiskey-soaked memory of a dream, he had not imagined it. Bile sloshed in his gut, wisps of memories taunting him. Scarlett had lain across the hall, cheating death, and even still, clutching Mrs. Wilkes' skirts, he had absolved himself. _I didn't know about this baby… She didn't know where I was to write to me and tell me—but she wouldn't have written me if she had known. I tell you—I tell you I'd have come straight home—if I'd only known—whether she wanted me home or not…_

She had wanted the baby, and very possibly even wanted _him_ home, if she had meant what she said about the rocking horse. How could she have missed him, after what he had done? He had retreated behind Bonnie's love, leaving Scarlett to linger, alone, and she had simply… _managed._ Managed like she always did: daring the old cats to censure her for having the audacity to _live_ after Charles, delivering her sister-in-law's child without aid, in sweltering heat, facing down an invading army, illness, starvation, and saving her entire extended family on guts alone. And finally, going about town, in the face of its worst scandal, carrying a child that its citizens had been only too maliciously happy to learn of— _wanting_ to carry it, too, even when she had been abandoned so faithlessly. It was extraordinary, and it was cruel.

He dropped his head in his hands. Running his fingers through his hair, he tugged painfully at the roots. They were damp with sweat. So was his back. He felt a droplet roll down its length and sighed. He felt very, very old.

Somehow, he made his way to his room. Although he had already dressed for the day, he rang for Pork. He was retreating again, he knew, but he reasoned that he could not finish his conversation with Scarlett in front of the children. _More weak excuses_. He bathed again, scrubbing roughly at his skin as if the last eight months sat like a layer of grime on it. Rising from the cooling water, it nearly surprised him that it was not gray with the dirt of his despicable behavior. He took care dressing again, in a suit nearly identical to the one he'd so recently removed. A finely-starched, crisp shirt, charcoal wool, his silk cravat exchanged for one of checked light and dark green. He didn't know if he was trying to start the day anew or not.

If nothing else, he had to appear like himself—the Wilkeses had invited them over for Christmas dinner. He would have liked nothing better than sending their late regrets, a sick child as their excuse, but he could not help still being aware of their precarious position in society. Memory of the last time they had shared supper together lay heavily on his heart. They had all been uncomfortable—to hell with Ashley's distress, though. But Mrs. Wilkes too: he had embarrassed her so, and in repayment for her cooperation regarding the mills. She deserved better. Deserved better than all of them.

Scarlett, too, had been unable to respond to his mocking question. He didn't know why he had teased her about the Yankee. The old barbs he used to wield so deftly, sparking anger, passion, _feeling_ , had all blunted, his rapier wit turned to an anvil after her fall. The old perverse impulses to tease her, prick her, had turned clumsy in his hands, clanging instead as against hollow tin, bruising her again. He had sworn not to hurt her anymore, and still he seemed unable, helpless to stop doing just that. He shook his head, feeling a new urgency pressing on him. His perfect understanding of his wife had unraveled—if she was telling the truth. And he was determined to get to the bottom of it.

~iaa~

When Rhett returned to the parlor, it was empty save the detritus of Christmas morning with three young children. It felt even more joyless, decorated for the holiday, absent a happy family. It felt like a mockery, and the gas lights flickering against the shiny baubles on the tree hurt his eyes.

A few toys lay scattered in the remnants of wrapping paper, but most had been removed to the nursery. He leaned down, his hand sifting among torn shreds, to pick up two dresses that had been left behind. Doll's clothing, they were the same size. One blue, one green. He smiled faintly, thinking of Ella next to Scarlett on the sofa, until other images dislodged the tender scene, and his mouth settled back into a grim line.

He had felt aimless, walking downstairs, but dresses in hand, he found new purpose—the only purpose he'd had, when he left his room, loath though he had been to admit it—and climbed the stairs again, this time heading for the nursery.


End file.
